The Alphabet of WVBA
by Solitary Shadow
Summary: A series of twenty-six drabbles and oneshots that explore the life, thoughts and feelings of the boxers in the WVBA. Will include every boxer in the Wii remake, no pairings right now. This is now complete.
1. From Abstinence to Clover

**Disclaimer:** Punch-Out! and all its associated characters do not belong to me. They are the property of Nintendo and I make no profts from this piece of fiction.

**Author's Note:** Well, well. Looks like I'm starting yet another anthology of sorts. I'm not sure whether this is an anthology or just a collection of loosely-themed drabbles, though. These are certainly a lot shorter than what I usually write.

I've set myself a sort of challenge here. Decide a word for each letter of the alphabet, assign a boxer to each word, and write about it. So this will have 26 drabbles/short oneshots in total. I'll be uploading them in sets of three. And yes, this involves every boxer in the Wii game. Except probably Donkey Kong. x.x I've already pretty much assigned a letter/word to each boxer, except a couple... so maybe he can use up those.

I'm also expecting a few boxers to have more than one drabble. There are only 13 boxers in the game (discounting Donkey Kong) and some I have more ideas for than others - we'll see how it goes. As a general rule, the drabbles won't have pairings - they're actually more like reflections of what they feel, their past we didn't get to see, and their unseen actions through the course of the game. Each drabble is different - some are angsty, some are funny, some are sad, and some are just plain wtf material. I hope you enjoy this little collection.

First up is A-C, starring Soda Popinski, Von Kaiser and Aran Ryan respectively.

* * *

**Abstinence - Soda Popinski**

Withdrawal was hard, but the Russian had very little choice in the matter.

After his humiliating defeat in the hands of Little Mac, some of the best scientists from Russia had taken the matter into their own hands - Soda Popinski had only ever been defeated twice, and those losses had actually been expected. He had been up against the Champion once and a particularly cranky Bald Bull the other time; it was not of very much surprise to anyone that he had lost those matches. The man still boasted thirty-three wins, third rank in the World Circuit, a merry attitude and an affinity for his trademark soda. That wasn't bad at all. But this time was different; how could he, the tallest and most muscular man in the entire Association, be brought down by a scrawny young man within minutes? It didn't make any sense and that news had shaken up everyone - but it had shaken up himself most of all.

So his manager and the scientists got thinking. They ultimately decided that Soda Popinski's skill itself was unquestionable and did not need any modifications - it was probably far more that his metabolism was failing him compared to a sprightly young lad. After all, the man wasn't all that young - he was thirty-five and older than most boxers, losing out only to Von Kaiser, Glass Joe and Bald Bull. And given what had happened to the former two with Little Mac, metabolism was probably the key.

He'd been drinking his soda for years now, knocking back dozens of bottles every day, and it had helped tremendously with his training regime over the past years. But that soda was no longer good enough, they had decided; when it had been first engineered, the Russian boxer had been young and full of energy. They needed something stronger now - something that could quite possibly support him through the rest of his career. And most of all, it needed to enable him to defeat Little Mac if for nothing else but to save his fallen pride.

Soda Popinski thought that was perfectly fine. He would rest for a while and amp up his training while the scientists developed a new soda for him. Nothing wrong about that, except for the fact that he was still extremely sore about his loss to that infernal boy - but he was confident that it would eventually turn out well. What he _wasn't_ happy with, however, was the fact that he was no longer allowed to take even one sip of the soda he had been drinking like water for the past decade or so. They needed to monitor his natural metabolism from now on and the soda was no longer of any use to him.

That had crushed him more than anything. He had been drinking his soda for so long that the thought of never being allowed to touch another drop actually made him feel horribly ill - the announcement had been made so suddenly that he hadn't even been allowed to cut down gradually. This was only his second day of abstaining and already he was experiencing insomnia and disorientation. He had never truly thought about the possibility he would one day lose his greatest joy in life - and thus he was vastly unprepared for it when it came.

Forget Little Mac, he thought to himself as he sprawled on his sofa and stared at the ceiling. The worst thing about this whole business was entirely about the soda. It wasn't good enough for him anymore, and he wasn't good enough for it either. He wasn't as youthful as he was when the soda was first made, and now his metabolism was failing him. Not even energy drinks were allowed to him for the time being; the only thing he could think of that would probably get him back on track for a while was vodka, but he liked to think that all that 'drunk' business was over him now, and he was left with little else. And it could be two, maybe _three_ weeks before they engineered another one...

He sighed and brushed a hand over his forehead. It was hard, he couldn't deny it, but he had to go through this rough patch. It was like breaking an addiction, he supposed - he'd have to let go, and let go he would. Soon they would contact him with details of the new soda. And he supposed he was luckier than most addicts - he had no access to any of that soda so he couldn't even relapse even if he tried.

Soda Popinski sighed and downed some grape juice, frowning. Not strong enough. He sighed again and lay back, staring again at the ceiling.

* * *

**Blood - Von Kaiser**

Everyone in the WVBA accepts that out of all the boxers in the Association, Von Kaiser is probably the most experienced. His emotions seldom get in the way of his fights; he's also been boxing and teaching the sport since he was young, so although he may be down in the Minor Circuit, he has undeniable composure. His ability to stay calm and collected also has one major advantage - he isn't afraid of seeing blood, whether from himself or some other boxer. It's quite surprising how horribly squeamish some boxers are, even the experienced ones - some blood is to be expected, because of their profession, but one major injury and they're backing away from the ring and whimpering helplessly. Von Kaiser has often been the first to jump into action whenever there's been an injury in the ring, regardless of how bad it may be. He's often looked after injured boxers, wiping away blood, sticking band-aids and applying tourniquets whilst they wait for medical aid to come. This is a man who once attained a two inches-long cut on his arm during a fight, and proceeded to sew it up himself afterwards in full view of everyone in the WVBA without blinking an eye.

He managed to send even Sandman rushing out of the room to be sick that day. Quite an achievement. But that aside, his military background is the main reason for this rather helpful trait and everyone respects that.

Little do they know that the first time the German had gotten someone else's blood on his hands, he'd wept. Von Kaiser has never been squeamish that way, he was used to seeing open wounds and severed limbs - but at least back then he'd had the reassurance of seeing blood on those who were _alive_. That was also the first time he'd ever killed anyone and he'd wept like a child, locking himself in the bathroom, frantically trying to wash it off underneath scalding water while simultaneously being loath to even touch his own skin. It hadn't been entirely on his hands either; it had gotten on his face, his arms, had stained his own uniform and he simply _couldn't _wash it off. So he'd stayed there and wept for hours, for the first time in his life utterly terrified of the outside world and his own (_murderous_?) self.

He had whispered so many prayers on his knees, begged for so much forgiveness, had trouble sleeping for days on end. But he knew even then that it was hopeless, even when it wasn't visible anymore and his palms burned from the heat; blood penetrates deep, into the skin, the bones, the depths of the very soul itself and the stain never goes away.

The first time's always the hardest. The second time, he didn't take more than a few minutes to recover from it; and then again and again, until he no longer balked at the sight and could move on with ease. But blood never washes off, only builds up like multiple layers of skin, and eventually he became numb to it all. So whilst the other boxers may express their envy at his uncanny ability, Von Kaiser prays that no one he knows will ever feel that sinking sensation of bone-deep filth. Blood from lacerated skin, open cuts and broken noses simply doesn't compare to what he felt, years and years ago on the battlefield, then only a pale-faced young soldier who knew nothing beyond what he had been taught.

Just him is more than enough.

* * *

**Clover - Aran Ryan**

"Found one!"

"Hmmph. Not for much longer, though. I'll find more."

Silence follows, only occasionally punctuated by 'hmm's and small gasps as they brush upon what they think they're looking for - followed by sighs as they're proven wrong. The girl brushes her hair back and presses her lips together, her forehead furrowed in thought. "I think that was the only one."

"Rubbish," the boy (slightly younger than her) retorts. "it can't be just that there's only one four-leaf clover in the whole patch. There's got to be at least two or three, you just wait..."

No reply comes to this haughty statement. But the girl stops searching and instead flops down decidedly on the ground, her eyes defiant and narrowed as she gazes at the younger boy. "Really, Aran. What's the point of all this? You don't really mean to spend the entire day searching for four-leaf clovers, do you? You can do that yourself - in fact, why did you even talk _me_ into doing this? I promised Brianna that I'd go see her at three o'clock sharp today-"

"Be quiet for a minute, woman," he cuts her off. "I think I saw something."

He picks the clover in question and peers at it, tossing it away in disappointment as he finds that it's just a normal three-leaf clover with one leaf torn in half. That's not good enough. Although he didn't mean to antagonise her, she takes offense and huffs, standing up from the clover patch.

"Just grow up already, Aran."

"Why should I, sister?" He shoots back, resentful that this is ending with him losing out again. He frantically combs the patch for a glimpse of the elusive four-leaf clover and comes up with nothing else.

"Because you are twenty years old," she replies casually as she walks away from him and into the house. "and continuing that, you're far too old for such childish games."

The door shuts behind his back. His sister is probably getting ready to meet her friend - maybe she's off to curl his hair or something, Aran doesn't really know nor care what she's off to do. He's just mad that he couldn't match up to her even in something like this; finding a four-leaf clover is one of the prime examples of chance, nothing to do with talent or intelligence or whatever. All things that she's better at. This wouldn't be so damned maddening either if she had excelled in such things; he probably wouldn't even have felt the need to best her in the first place had she been too far above him. But no, it's always a close competition - she is always just a step forward than he is, making him think that he can get ahead of her for once. His sister truly does have the luck of the Irish when it comes to besting him, Aran thinks to himself with a frown. He searches for half an hour more and gives up.

Aran never forgets these moments when he is reminded that his sister is better than him. He surrounds himself with lucky charms; horseshoes and emblems of four-leaf clovers are only the beginning. He trains, he gains fame, and he knows that he's skilled. He knows that he's far better off in the world of the WVBA, and he tries to be content with that.

But he's never that way wherever he and his sister share a world.


	2. From Determination to Frail

**Author's Note:** This is the second part of the Alphabet series. I've been posting this on DeviantArt too. Again there are three drabbles, all of them different boxers from the first installment this time. They follow pretty much the same 'keyhole' exploration into a scene in their life or their thoughts and feelings.

Now's the time for some comments on the previous chapter.

**Abstinence **- I was inspired when I saw Soda Popinski's Title Defense opening. He's obviously quite eager to get a new soda developed or at least get something _new_ done... his 'buh? O.o?' look says it all. But I reckoned that he'd need some time to wind down from not drinking his old soda anymore. Old habits are hard to break after all.

**Blood** - I have an image of Von Kaiser in my head as a hardened veteran. But he didn't get that way because he enjoyed killing or destroying things in the first place - I never really see him as a fundamentally cruel man. No, I think he _had_ to be hardened. And what better way to do this by seeing a dead body? Or even killing someone? The first kill's always the most difficult, and I don't doubt that Von Kaiser has at least one experience in this. He might be the cool and efficient _kampfmaschine_ we all know of now, but I'm willing to bet that he was far less so when he was young and still so unused to the world.

**Clover** - I have always had the notion that Aran Ryan has a inferiority complex to his sister. Though she is a vague picture for me, I always imagined that she was always one step ahead of her brother, always teasingly close yet definitely going forwards. His hyperactivity stems from this, I think - and this is a written account of one such time when his sister got ahead of him. Silly, perhaps, it's nothing but clovers they're competing over and only Aran takes it seriously. But maybe it is entirely serious in his point of view.

To Chaos Wielder - Thank you so much for the review! Your reviews keep me happy. They're always so constructive. And I did consider writing for the Super Punch-Out! universe, indeed. Only thing that gets me is that the Wii Aran and the SPO Aran is so... different. Can't even think of them as the same character. This is quite likely a problem. I'm hoping to write something about the SPO boxers soon. Narcis Prince got a part in the Obligatory Cafeteria Chapter, but that was really all, I think.

Second is D-F, starring Little Mac, Don Flamenco and Glass Joe. In that order.

* * *

**Determination - Little Mac**

They say he's too little; he shrugs that off.

They say he's too young; he shrugs _that _off too.

They say he's too weak; one uppercut and a series of hooks demonstrate his skill, and that protest is soon silenced.

Careless attitude, some say, and they tut at him and turn away, expecting him to be just typical teenager material. Most people expect that he'll just give up and move on with his life given a few losses - certainly nobody expects him to end up as the champion. This notion is also shared by his supporters, who recognize his talent but still don't have too much faith that he will ever get past the imposing figure of Mr Sandman. No, what the people want is a young talent breezing through the WVBA and taking the Association by storm. They want a major upset in the ranks. They want to see the usual boxers dazed and baffled. They certainly get what they want to see when he tears straight through the Minor Circuit and takes the belt from King Hippo.

But they don't expect him to keep going. Sooner or later he will stop.

Or so they _think_ anyway. Everyone starts to pay more attention when Great Tiger is defeated. People start getting nervous when Don Flamenco is beaten down in one single humiliating round without getting more than three or four punches in. Even then it takes a hard-earned defeat of Soda Popinski to get the crowd in an utter uproar about his success; only then do people start having doubts about their original thoughts. Only then do they think he could maybe make it through.

Little Mac is a ruthless customer that way. He might not know much about the world but he can see that he has unnerved quite a few people both within and outside the WVBA; this trend shows in his fans. His supporters include fans of Minor Circuit who have always rooted for the underdogs (it does help that the Minor Circuit boxers are mostly quite supportive of the boy) and people who want to see the World Circuit toppled mercilessly. They certainly have faith in him and cheer for him lustily in every match.

But he has his share of non-supporters as well. Fans of the Major Circuit are still very sore about their loss, and people supportive of the World Circuit boxers have been getting into fights about whether Little Mac will triumph or not. It's not as if the boy doesn't know about those bets - sooner or later his luck will run out, they say, and they're waiting for the day to come. He duly takes note of those comments, shelves it away on the back of his mind, and carries on training and running. Doc Louis swears that the boy would have run the equivelent of at least three or four marathons by the time Little Mac defeats Super Macho Man.

All eyes are on him now. Nothing stands between him and the Champion. And he'd be damned if that wasn't the most intimidating of all boxers he'd ever encountered; Mr. Sandman is incomparable to anyone else he's fought. Right before the match Little Mac finds a photomontage of the man beating the stuffing out of every single boxer in the Association without even a scratch; and whilst impressive, it doesn't do much for his nerves. That doesn't improve when he steps inside the ring either - even Doc Louis, once the heavyweight champion of the WVBA, winces lightly and gazes uneasily at him at the sight of the towering Champion. Little Mac notices that at this moment, no one in the audience genuinely expects him to triumph - but that only hardens his determination further. He grits his teeth, glares at the man, and jumps right into action.

As he stares into the sneering Champion's face, he briefly thinks back to everything that had happened. His boxing career started merely a few months ago and now he's here, having sliced through everyone else, and he couldn't have done it without his coach, all the intense training he did and all his fans. There were times he felt like giving up, of course - he's only seventeen, going on eighteen in a couple of months, and still so young and naive of the outside world.

Mr. Sandman is tough. Little Mac spends the entirety of the first round learning to dodge and getting very small nimble punches in; he has to stay on his toes, because despite his bulk the other man is rather terrifyingly fast with his moves. The second round is spent in a slightly more lax manner. But it gets serious extremely quickly; Little Mac knocks him down twice, but he gets himself knocked down the same amount of times in the third round. He's bruised all over, his nose is bleeding (he's sure of it), and his hands feel numb; and suddenly the boy is afraid. He wants to run from the ring, run out of the building and never come back. He's only a puny shrimp next to someone like Mr. Sandman after all. That he can't change.

With that thought, one extremely well-aimed punch hits him in the stomach; he reels back, and the crowd gasps, some even shouting out cries of dismay as the boy stumbles around. He's not going to make it, they think, and for one eternal moment Little Mac shares that notion. The inside of his head goes blank for a while and he sinks onto one knee, provoking even more screams from the audience.

But then he remembers the primary reason why he got so far - his own determination. His own love for the sport. His own dream to be the best there ever was. Passing out now would be a disgrace to all that - it would be a waste of all Doc Louis did for him - he opens his eyes blearily and stares wildly at the crowd, meeting their bewildered stare. Within seconds he locks eyes with the boxers he fought before, all sitting in the front row with a look of both fear and amazement. They stare at him and he stares at them - and amongst the silence, some of them give him a smile of encouragement.

That is all it takes for the boy to hoist himself back up, clenching his fists, giving Mr. Sandman an almost-feral look as he snarls and readies himself. And just for a moment, amidst the crowd's cheers, he sees true fear in Mr. Sandman's eyes.

He goes in for the final punch, with only ten seconds left in the match.

The Champion can't take it this time. He groans and slowly topples over, eventually crashing to the floor in defeat; only a second after his fall does the timer sound, the referee running right into the ring and raising the boy's arm in victory. The older man doesn't even have to yell out 'time!' or 'TKO!' - he wouldn't be heard anyway, because as soon as he announces Little Mac's triumph the crowd goes utterly wild. Seats are kicked back, things are thrown into the air, and a deafening cheer echoes in the ring.

Little Mac smiles as he is handed the champion's belt, and he manages to raise it up high, provoking more roars from the crowd. He sees the legend he has created in the world of boxing. He sees some of the other boxers, accepting of him fully at last, running towards him to shake his hand and celebrate - and in that instant he knows it'll be all right. He's been brave.

It was all worth it after all.

* * *

**Ebony - Don Flamenco**

Black is his new passion. He has thrown away his elaborate matador clothing - he now dresses simply in black attire and doesn't bother with theatrical acts anymore. His bullfighting has become more swift, sharper than before, with a certain mix of recklessness and elegance that is hailed as a new style. Of course he didn't _intend_ to create this new 'style' that numerous people have been imitating now - but what can he do? Fashions come and go and he simply created another one, that's all. Sort of strange that people rejoice so over that display of his anger and sorrow - perhaps, he thinks, people all feel like that on the inside. Strip away the mask and disguise, and all you'd have is a simple bare-bones assemblage of equally simple emotions such as happiness, sadness, and such. And perhaps they all secretly appreciate a brutally honest display of such emotions like he does with his bullfighting.

And this simplicity has actually - in retrospect - made him somewhat better overall. He's stronger now for sure, and he's certainly regained some of his lost pride. He's no longer too cheery or colourful like he used to be, and because of this he has actually started being attractive to far more women than before. He has that slight sense of distance and everything about him is now darker and more intense; but being a gentleman, his impeccable manners around ladies haven't changed. Naturally women are more drawn to him and he constantly has a dozen of them (all different everyday) following him, writing him letters, sighing over his photos and dying to meet him in person. He's the most popular one with ladies in the WVBA now, even moreso than Super Macho Man. Don Flamenco's fairly appreciative of them in return and doesn't mind taking a few of them home, like he has done tonight.

But the only one he really would be content with has gone, and he cannot fill her loss. There was a time he thought he could; but Don Flamenco stopped thinking that for good when he saw Carmen walking along the streets of Barcelona one day.

She seemed very thin and somewhat grief-stricken; and there he was, almost gaunt with his intense training, dark and suave and half a dozen girls following him excitedly. She saw him, froze in place, while he walked past with half triumph and half hesitation.

_See now, my little Carmencita_! Don Flamenco had thought, an insane sort of pride colouring his senses as he strutted past her. _See how I have rebuilt myself! You couldn't wait for me, no, but I've risen up from the ashes, far better than ever..._

He'd been fairly ecstatic for the rest of that day. But then it occurred to him that he was not happy because he was triumphant of his success; no, he was happy because he had seen Carmen and had assured his own existence to her once more. He was only like this because Carmen had acknowledged him, no more. He could have been the richest and most successful man in the entire world, and he wouldn't have been happy at all had his love ignored him and passed him by. The realization that he was still so dependent on her depressed him once more and he hasn't recovered from it yet.

"_Madre de Dios_," the young man whispered that stormy night, thunder and rain lashing at his windows. "_cosa mala - muy, muy mala_!"

He can't go on without her and he knows it too well. So he shrouds himself in a new persona, a slightly more distant and mystifying one. And it does work. Just not for the person it was intended for. This makes his defeat to Little Mac ever so bitter to him - and the knowledge that the boy doesn't think much else of his victory over Don Flamenco, that he has just moved on completely unaware of what he did the man, keeps on tearing him up.

Black. A tone of simplicity. A colour of authority, seriousness, and mourning. His heart is like a funeral of sorts, forever destined to mourn his loss of his colourful demeanor and his Carmen.

His friends are worried about him. Glass Joe's been talking to him more often recently, offering careful advice and glancing at him anxiously whenever he mentions his desire for revenge. Some think he's taking it too far, wearing black eyeliner and dying his chestnut-brown hair jet black - they say he looks more like a melodrama actor rather than a boxer. Some dismiss him as a shameless fashionista.

Don Flamenco ignores them. And_ this _is also bad because he never used to do that.

He looks up from the bed, his latest conquest sleeping peacefully beside him. But it's not her unmoving body that he's interested in; he looks over at her shoulder at the vase on the bedside table. The single rose in it has wilted and dried; and in the dark of the night, he sees that its colour is no longer a vibrant red. He can't make out the colour at all - it blends to the background, with only the vague outline of the flower visible. It has been coloured black by the night - and his own abandonment of love and passion. After all, Don Flamenco had always needed a fresh rose or two in that vase every night, to either give to Carmen the morning after or spend some time tending to if it happened to be a bouquet. It has been quite some weeks since he last replaced that rose.

How fitting, he thinks to himself as he looks at the wilted rose. He is seeking vengeance; his loss and anger is being mourned with his black attire; and now this rose, this unnatural colouration of nature, is following that example as well. Perhaps he should take a rose with him next time, just the way he used to - only this time, it won't be for Carmen. It won't be symbolizing love and passion - just his anguish and resentment and fury. Maybe his little Carmencita will watch the match as well - and maybe she'd understand then.

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

* * *

**Frail - Glass Joe**

There's no doubt that Glass Joe is weak. The Referee acknowledges it, to an extent that a special rule had to be made that catered specially to the Frenchman's protection. Every boxer in the Association acknowledges it, and to show that they do, they follow that rule (well, all but one or two of them, anyway). He himself knows that he is a frail, weak creature that probably has no business in the world of boxing.

But he keeps on going anyway. It's not a sin to make a living out of a sport you enjoy, after all. He can and does make quite a good living even with his record - it's no record to be proud of, but it is a key to his existence within the WVBA and he treasures it. After all, who else will gain strange records like that when he retires? Unusual as he is, he's happy with his life.

But happiness aside, it has gotten to the point where some boxers refuse to hit him out of fear that they may severely maim or kill him. The Minor Circuit (except Von Kaiser, one spot ahead of him) usually are all right with engaging in matches with the Frenchman; they're all fairly low down in the strength and speed department, and most of the time rookie boxers who haven't gotten the knack of it yet will be working their way up and down the ranks. Glass Joe usually only gets away with a few bruises and cuts here and there. Major Circuit boxers are a little more apprehensive and the Referee has all but downright banned the World Circuit boxers fighting the man. At first Glass Joe was treated as a joke, but he's been in the WVBA so long that he's now a vital component of the Association. He's like a fragile glass ornament that is often passed by and occasionally made fun of but everyone appreciates. He has his own level of fame distinct from the others in the WVBA; he's quite an attraction as he is. Anyone who breaks him would be in unimaginable trouble, and no, not even the Champion can get away with it.

Glass Joe doesn't even look like a boxer most of the time. He's a thin man, underweight, and with far weaker bronchi than anyone would like to have (caused by a strong bout of pneumonia back in his twenties). He's a shy, quiet man with gaunt cheeks who looks either permanently contemplative or in need of a good meal. One time when they were both younger, Glass Joe fainted in the middle of a training session due to a combination of heat and not having eaten anything; Von Kaiser had to pick him up and take him home that day, and he'd asked the younger man in disbelief how he managed to even keep on breathing.

He's better now. They both are, him and Von Kaiser. The only thing that didn't change - Glass Joe's still as fragile and weak as ever, and his jaw has been getting more sensitive by the day. Physically speaking, the Frenchman doubts he has more than a couple more years left before he leaves for good - he's thirty-eight years old, has been beaten far too many times, and he was never really the type to be suited to such a sport.

But he knows one thing. His body will fail him before his mind does.

The Frenchman has been urged many times to give up the sport for his own safety. Numerous referees and boxers have come and went; they've threatened him, they've begged him on their knees, and he's seen it all. But he has never agreed; he has never given up, no matter how severe the beatings that followed were. He made it fairly clear that he would rather die in the ring than give up the sport for something safer and easier.

Threats and pleads poured in for a few years, with one particular official going as far as to say that it would be the consequence of his own foolishness should any severe accident happen in the ring; and that they would not take any responsibility whatsoever. Glass Joe responded with calm silence. Eventually they ceased and left him be for another few years - after a full decade, he realised that he had suddenly become indispensable to the Association. They don't want to let him go now. When he goes, it will be a dignified affair, they promise. Glass Joe has wryly observed that the WVBA still seems to think that they can control what he does.

He knows it is far better to break rather than bend. He is far more stubborn and far more self-determined that they give him credit for. And to this date - no one has succeeding on bending his will yet, let alone break him, and Glass Joe takes reassurance in the fact that he is not as frail like they say he is within himself. That's really all he needs.

When he leaves the Association for good, he will walk out on his own two feet, head held up high and smiling. And then he will show them that his fragility is only on the outside, and that he's proud and happy. He won't be just a carefully-handled ornament - no, he will be his own brave self, and that's all that matters.


	3. From Gourmet to Indulge

**Author's Note:** Whoaaa. Sorry this was so long time coming. I was so busy with my college work, what with numerous essays and my Extended Project and all. Thank goodness I don't have to go through the latter again, it was doing my head in. x.x Now for notes on the previous chapter again, from Devart.

**Determination** - Sums up Little Mac in a nutshell, I think. The entire point of the game is to guide Little Mac up the ranks of the WVBA, and you can try and try (and rejoice when you finally get past someone) to do this. Sure, you will automatically retire after three losses in Last Stand, but how many wins and tries would you have gone through before then? This deals with the most triumphant scene of Little Mac defeating Sandman - and it's quite a happy portrayal, I think. Even some boxers join in...

**Ebony** - ... but I did only say _some_ boxers. I know all of the boxers aim to defeat Little Mac, and they all have varying degrees of intensity to which they approach this, but Don Flamenco's vengeance intrigues me somehow. I don't really know why. But he lost his woman along with his pride - those kiss-marks on Little Mac's poster probably made him completely lose his mind over this. He is just so... different from his portrayal in the main circuit. Think of this as a loose companion piece to 'Determination' - a boy with everything and a man with nothing, to put it very briefly.

**Frail** - This is for Glass Joe, and is pretty generic, I think. It's not an exploration into a darker side of him. I've tried my best to give his outwardly-delicate but in truth very determined self justice. He's a joy to write, that man. He's an admirable character. Sure, a far cry from his original cowardly self... but that's character development. He sure did get better in the Wii game, very much so.

To Chaos Wielder - Thank you again for the review! It was more detailed this time. And the tense change in Don Flamenco's drabble is intentional - I should probably word that better, I'm dealing with what happened in the past and what's going on in present time in the same sentence. x.x And yep, SPO! Aran is much too... unlike the Aran from the Wii version. It does make for an interesting double personality - or maybe he really was bland when he first entered the WVBA. Maybe he snapped for some reason during that time. We would never know. Next Level Games did, however, did such an incredible job with Aran that he's one of the most talked about characters in the series.

I did have plans for a Glass Joe deathfic once. Sort of inevitable considering how much time I spend dwelling on the man. And yes, it was indeed in the ring. It was utterly tragic, because I think that should that ever happen it would destroy two careers at once - Joe's and his opponent's. The opponent will never be able to box again and probably will live with guilt for ever - not to mention that he'd have done it to a boxer with an incredibly loyal following (I do think Joe's a bit of a boxing cult classic). But the man will die bravely in any situation, I believe, no matter how morbid that thought might be...

Third chapter is G-I, starring King Hippo, Bear Hugger and Soda Popinski. In that order. Soda gets his second drabble here... quite early, I think. It's a continuation of 'Abstinence'. Also, the King Hippo one is a little odd because while it is _about_ him it's not actually _centered_ _on_ him. Wrap your head around that... O.o

I still do apologize for Bear Hugger's accent.

* * *

**Gourmet - King Hippo**

"Holy Christ Almighty, what're ye _doin' _to that roast?"

"Mroooraurk," King Hippo grunted in reply, not even looking at Aran's horrified face as he picked up the remains of the roast chicken and pressed it flat, gristle and all. He then took a large bite out of the whole lot whilst passing some ketchup across the table to the man opposite him; he chewed quite happily and glanced at the Irishman for only a second before resuming his feast.

Bear Hugger laughed as he accepted the bottle of ketchup from King Hippo, seemingly not caring about the carnage in front of him. "He's a real eater, ain't he, Aran? I wouldn' even be sittin' here had I not known he was so - whaddya call it, _epicurean_-"

"You call this_ eating_?" Aran screamed, for once too disgusted to even make fun of the situation. He'd had a few drinks down in the bar before coming to the WVBA, as evidenced by his obvious Irish brogue, and he was feeling a migraine coming on. "bit too civilized a word for _this_, don't ye think?"

The two went right on eating, King Hippo ignoring the Irishman completely and Bear Hugger only sparing him an amused glance. The former had finished off the roast chicken and had reached for a plate that had a few fillets of meat quite unlike Aran had ever seen before; much to his surprise, the large man actually picked up a knife and fork and cut off a piece, savouring every bite, instead of tearing right into the food.

"That's quail, m'lad," the Canadian explained. "he made it 'imself. Stuffed with foie gras, nonetheless. Call 'im a big eater or whatever, but he's a good cook when it comes down to it. Chooses the finest ingredients too, not surprisin' really, seein' as he's a king and all. Can't go hungry with him around, no sir."

"Groawwr."

Holding the ketchup, the Canadian lumberjack contentedly dabbed a plate of chipolatas with it, talking all the while. "'e's a good boy, ain't he, Aran? I gotta admit I was intimidated for a while, but he's jess like a chubby ol' kid. A really powerful... gourmet... chubby ol' kid. You gotta join in the feast or what? Gonna let me bear in for a while soon, maybe we can all be friends then..."

"Jaysus," Aran moaned as Bear Hugger gleefully reached for a plate of salmon fillets, pushing the plate towards King Hippo before stacking up the used plates in a neat pile. "what the bloody hell's wrong with ya? I swear - _no_, Bear Hugger, for the love of all that's good and holy, do _not_ feed him those fillets!"

A shrug. "But he needs to eat, Aran. Ye think that kind of bulk takes care of itself? And - ye want some maple syrup with that, m'lad?"

Aran threw up his hands, exasperated. "I'm surrounded by bloody _madmen_!" Sickened at the sight, he marched outside, leaving the two large men to their 'feast'; he left the WVBA building and headed straight down the road into the same bar as before, where he pledged to chug down Guinness until the world made sense again.

* * *

**Hug - Bear Hugger**

Little Mac could not for the life of him figure out why he was being hugged by the Canadian lumberjack at two in the afternoon.

"I'm sorry, but this really-"

"Aw, leave the guy be, man," Disco Kid yelled from the changing rooms, peeking from the doorway. "you'll get used to it soon enough. It's practically _ritual_."

Little Mac could have asked for an explanation then, but Disco Kid had already withdrawn back into the room; no closer to obtaining an answer, the boy tried to wriggle away, mumbling a hasty apology. But Bear Hugger's grip on him was too strong. Little Mac had beaten this man up mercilessly only a week ago but he couldn't even escape from his hug; noting the irony, the boy finally gave up and just stood still, waiting for it to be over.

"Wasn't that 'ard, was it? Sorry about that, lad," the lumberjack finally chuckled, letting go gently; Little Mac stumbled backwards with a yelp despite this, not having quite regained his bearings. "simple court'sy, that's all. I do it after ev'ry match."

"Every match?" the boy repeated faintly, dazed. He tried to put together a picture of Von Kaiser or Piston Hondo being hugged by the lumberjack; the results were so utterly bizarre and confusing that he had to put them out of mind again. And how did Bear Hugger even manage with King Hippo? Little Mac shook his head a couple of times, leading the older man to glance uneasily at him.

"I'm a_ hugger_, not a fighter, lad. Yeh've won, an' I ain't going to mope over it. Nah, yeh won fair an' square - what's there to complain abou', eh? Nothin'."

The boy was taken aback by this; he hadn't entered the WVBA expecting to be liked or sympathised with. If all went according to his plans and ambitions, he would be working his way up the ranks fairly quickly - and given how ruthless he'd proven himself to be, he'd thought that friends or admirers within the ranks were simply out of the question. And to be fair, until now it had seemed that way - the boxers within the Circuits were at the very best polite towards him, but not very close. At worst they were downright insulting about his height, age and threatening to beat the boy into a pulp. So he'd expected insults, bodily harm and hostility and had braced himself thoroughly for these situations - and the hug simply came as a surprise.

"Yeh thinkin' that nobody else 'ere does this kinda stuff, ain't yeh?" Bear Hugger asked, obviously having picked up on that vibe. The boy nodded; he rubbed his chin lightly and adjusted his woolly hat, deep in thought. "Well... ain't too far off, I'd say. Not all folks are nice. But some are all right, lad, tis' a place where yeh gotta show at least some respect for people."

"I understand."

"Yer a good kid. No hard feelings, eh?" Bear Hugger laughed, and slapped the boy light-heartedly on the shoulder before merrily going about his way. Little Mac watched him go, still bewildered over the entire thing; but then he smiled slightly as he turned back. At least he knew that there was someone in the Major Circuit who didn't hold grudges and wasn't afraid to show it - so far he was on mainly safe territory and that was all good for him. He did feel a surge of dread at the fact that it was only going to get harder, he was going to face tougher and increasingly less sympathetic boxers; so this one incident had given him some comfort to the boy indeed.

He sure could use kindness now.

* * *

**Indulge - Soda Popinski**

"How many drinks do we want?"

"Just one-"

"_Two_," Aran said decisively before leaving for the bar, leaving his friend seated by himself by the window. Soda Popinski sighed and slumped over; he was quite exhausted and downhearted, not having had any of his trademark soda for nearly a month. Since his defeat to Little Mac, his manager had taken his entire supply away, telling him to relax and keep his head up until they synthesised a new soda for him. That was fine and all, and besides he knew that he didn't have long to go before he could try out the new one - soon his ordeal would be over. But it couldn't possibly feel longer to him - the sight of people drinking and chatting in the bar really didn't help, which was why he'd tried to stay home today. Aran wasn't having it. The Russian sighed again, rubbing lightly at his temples, not knowing what was going to happen next; he assumed that Aran was probably going to get them both a beer or something. Soda Popinski didn't fancy any of the beer available in this bar - none of it was strong enough to fuel him in one drink, and by the time he had drunk enough to be satisfied, it was going to be too obvious to his manager.

Also he didn't have a lot of money on him. Aran usually expected an even split when they went out, but it was not unknown for the Irishman to place the chief amount of the cost on the other's behalf; and the times he did have to fork over he moaned about it for hours. The Russian wasn't sure he could handle that right now. He considered himself an easygoing man but he couldn't face it that night.

But it turned out that he didn't have to face a difficult Aran at all. The Irishman came back with two drinks, one of them a pint of Guinness for himself - and the other a tumbler of clear vodka. He set the latter down in front of Soda Popinski and sat down, gazing at his face.

"Drink up," was all he said - direct requests such as those were few and far between when it came to Aran, and the Russian was briefly taken aback at it. He looked up at his friend, searching for an answer, but didn't receive any as the Irishman simply sat down on his seat and sipped at his Guinness. Aran raised his eyebrows slightly at his hesitation, and gestured with one hand, indicating that Soda Popinski should start drinking as well.

"What brought this on?"

Aran didn't answer until he'd downed half of his glass. "Been looking in a mirror recently, head?" he asked; Soda Popinski shrugged, perplexed. "might sound offensive, but it's probably best that you haven't been. It ain't a pretty sight. You look like a mess right now, Soda - you haven't been sleeping or eating well or anything since your goddamn manager took all your soda away. And I figured that if that eejit ain't gonna do anything about this, then maybe I should."

"Lower your voice," the Russian said almost automatically, looking around to see if anyone they knew were nearby; but of course there weren't, and he brushed a hand over his forehead, knowing that Aran's words were true (if not delivered in the kindest way). "it's really kind of you, but I-"

The Irishman immediately raised his head with such a look that Soda Popinski immediately fell silent; it wasn't often that he was intimidated by anyone, much less Aran (who was a good five inches shorter than him), but it was much _less_ often that the younger man was deadly serious about anything. He looked down at the vodka tumbler and picked it up reluctantly, gazing into the clear liquor.

"Look, I know you don't like being pinned as a drunk," Aran said, his voice surprisingly quiet. "like they saw you a decade ago. I can't get you any of that soda you used to drink, and I figure you need something to make up for a month of not drinking anything but juice and water. Do me a favour, Soda, and have that if nothing else, you hear?"

He heard. The Russian nodded and raised the tumbler to his lips, downing the entire lot in one gulp; he felt the scorching vodka down his throat, but contrary to what most people would have done he did not flinch or wince. He'd had too many years of drinking experience behind him for that. Almost instantly he felt a sort of warmth returning to him, a warmth he hadn't realized that he'd lost - ever since the soda had been taken away from him he had not experienced that familar rush of adrenaline. He let out a pleased sigh, setting down the tumbler, and grinned at Aran.

The Irishman (who had been watching closely) gave a whoop of delight. "That's the spirit!" he exclaimed, drawing a few curious glances from the surrounding bar patrons. "see? Look at you, honest to God, you look _years_ younger already!"

"I'd better not drink any more of this," Soda Popinski said, grateful but wary - he had to watch his alcohol consumption, all that 'drunk' business back years ago was over and done with. No use leaving an addiction to return to an older one. He pushed away the empty vodka tumbler, but offered Aran a genuine smile. "_spasiba_."

"Shameless cop-out," Aran shot back, but his voice was playful and he seemed quite relieved that his efforts had been appreciated. His eyes softened as he pushed two cans of Red Bull towards the taller man: "I know you can't have too much of vodka, so I got you these. Forget your manager and forget Little Mac, just pick the damn cans up and _drink_. It's all on me. Can't let me head go around looking like death warmed up all the bloody time."

Chuckling, and knowing that he was experiencing a moment of rare kindness from the Irishman, the man took up one of the cans and popped it open, taking a large swig. It refreshed him, energized him, reminded him of what he had been missing for nearly a month - he briefly felt a pang in his heart, thinking about his old soda, but that feeling soon dissipated as a familar sensation took hold of his body. Sighing in bliss, he leaned back, enjoying his drink - at least tonight he could be himself again, and it was all thanks to Aran. The younger man was watching him with an odd smile on his face, one that was a mixture of awkward pleasure and pride that he would not voice.

"You can be decent sometimes, Aran, did you know that?"

"Aw, you damn pansy. It's nothing."

Smiling, the Russian helped himself to another, indulgent and relaxed for the first time in weeks.


	4. From Jester to Language

**Author's Note:** Schedule what schedule hahahaha

Okay, notes on the previous three drabbles.

**Gourmet** **-** This is a King Hippo drabble that is not actually centered on King Hippo. (mind blown) O_o And yep, I do apologize for Bear Hugger and Aran's accents. I'm really bad with accents. x.x Anyhoo, this is just a cracky little drabble with the three. I see King Hippo as a man of refined taste - 'refined' being of a quite different definition from what we would consider so, but come on, he's a king. He should have some basic manners at least and he does indeed!

**Hug -** Well, the only person who fitted this word almost instantaneously in my mind was Bear Hugger. It's a given, seeing as it's a part of his name. He also seemed to be the first boxer in the WVBA who genuinely didn't look like he bore any grudges to Little Mac. He's a hugger, not a fighter, after all. This is one of my experiments in giving Mac a mentor figure that is not Doc Louis. I tried with Joe, I've thought of writing one with Kaiser, but here I've tried with the boxer who is canonically a non-begrudging person. I like it personally.

**Indulge -** Soda gets his second drabble quite early on the series, I think. This is a sequel of sorts to 'Abstinence' and is about how he's dealing with his with drawl about a month on. It also features kind!Aran - kind as he can be at least. I think this is the most accurate portrayal of him as a nice person without getting too sappy. I liked writing this drabble a lot. Soda's a character I never seem to focus on a lot and he's usually with Aran. They have a sort of bros-before-hos kind of relationship, I like to think.

To Chaos Wielder - Again, thank you for the review. You're the only constant reviewer I get in this fandom, giving me constructive reviews every chapter of every story... I appreciate it very much. And to expand once more on the deathfic idea... I did think of Aran being the boxer who did it. He seems to be the most likely. But I toyed with the idea of Sandman as well - a larger than life figure brought down once and for all by the death of a weak, small man. I do agree that Sandman will not show much emotion initially - but it's what'll happen afterwards that'll lead to the breakdown. It's just such a dramatic imbalance. I can even imagine the boxers banding together to attack him for his actions, it'd be an ultimate unity regardless of how much they like or hate each other.

The fourth installment is J-L, starring Aran Ryan, Great Tiger, Glass Joe and Von Kaiser in that respective order. Glass Joe and Von Kaiser share the same one. All the drabbles here have turned out... a tad longer than the average drabble. They have a fairly otherworldly feel to them, only very faintly. And I've broken the no pairings rule here, I'm afraid - the drabble for 'L', 'Language', is a Glass Joe x Von Kaiser piece. However, it deals with the very beginning of their friendship itself, not the deeper relationship they share. So you will not find kisses or hugs or endearing words in there; it's a pairing piece simply because it serves as a very early prelude for that relationship and because it says so in the drabble that they will grow to love one another. That is genuinely all.

'Language' is also notable in the sense that it has some pretty damn bad French. I dropped French in the September of 09 and have not used it frequently since. All of you French speakers out there, I sincerely apologize. I try very hard to avoid Google Translate or other similar sites, because I see that as a bit of a cop-out for things like basic sentences and a few phrases; it also brings forth the bad habit of trying to apply English grammar to other languages. I try to do research for languages I don't know, and I try to apply the knowledge I have in French. It's still hard, though. I have provided a translation of what the French is _meant_ to be saying on the very bottom of the page, so please do check on it when you read it. It's also an exploration into a potential Von Kaiser who originates from the French Foreign Legion.

* * *

**Jester - Aran Ryan**

"Oh, for heaven's sake, _Aran_!" the shout rings out across the hallways of the WVBA; boxers passing by briefly raise their head inquisitively at the sound, but soon shake their heads and carry on about their business. _Don't mind them_, they seem to think; their expressions all say that much - _they're just as bad as one another_. They, of course, don't know (nor are they very interested in knowing) why exactly Narcis's outburst was triggered. The outburst itself was certainly little and insignificant, but the very source of it goes back a couple of months. Yes, it all started when Aran's sister came in to visit the Irishman while he was training.

"Hello, boys," she'd trilled pleasantly as she walked casually into the room where Aran, Glass Joe, Narcis and Don Flamenco were training. Aran had been practicing on a punching bag, Glass Joe and Don Flamenco lifting weights and talking about current affairs; only Narcis hadn't been hard at work, staring vacantly into a pocket mirror and adjusting his hair. All of them stopped what they were doing when they saw the young woman leaning against the doorway - it was rare that women were seen in the WVBA, and this interruption came as quite bizarre to them.

Only the young Irishman was relaxed about it. "What're you doing here, sis?" Aran had asked, skipping the greetings; all the others murmured a hello, and had nodded in a shy sort of acknowledgement.

"I'm just stopping by for a short while. We need an escort home, little brother," she'd replied, smiling in her usual lovely way at him. "I'm with two of my friends... we're passing through a rough part of town later, I was wondering if you could give us a lift in the evening..."

"There's a catch, isn't there?" Aran asked before she finished her sentence, looking bored. "there's no way my sister would be afraid of a few hoodlums in the neighbourhood, let alone ask me about a lift in the evening when it's sunny as all hell outside."

"Funny how there's no hiding from the resident joker! All right, fine. I won't beat about the bush. I need a partner for my dance finals," she'd replied; the Irishman had groaned at this and backed away, rubbing his forehead lightly. "come on, little brother, just once. Only you're a good match with me when it comes to dancing - why, you're better than I am. Please? You won't go unrewarded for it, I'll pay for your drinks for the entire damn _month_ if you want-"

This was hardly new banter between the two siblings; eventually Aran would have given in and he would have left with his sister, muttering to himself and gazing at her with irritation - and yet, he would have looked at her with unmistakable fondness. But Narcis had to step in at this point, and that was the true beginning of it all. "I could go with you if you wish, my lady," he'd said silkily, boldly stepping in between the two. "I'm not bad at dancing myself, and I would be _honoured_ to escort such a lovely lady..."

Glass Joe and Don Flamenco actually visibly winced at this, but nobody saw this at the time. Aran looked ready to kill, and quite happily would have done so if his sister had not dealt with it - "Thanks," she had responded coolly, barely throwing the Englishman a glance. "but it's _Irish _dancing, and I think I can trust my brother a little more on both fronts."

They'd left, and that should have been the way things had ended. But neither Aran nor Narcis have forgotten that day; the Irishman's been keeping a closer eye on the other recently, and the blond man really hasn't let him down on that front. It's not often the Englishman is rejected by women, and he must be intrigued by Aran's sister. But Narcis hasn't exactly been very secretive about his pursuit, either; Aran's seen the Englishman loitering around his house twice, hoping to catch a glimpse of his sister. Both times he yelled at Narcis to go away and leave both of them in peace. It's only when his sister turns to him in the morning and shows him that someone has been calling her that he loses it; he doesn't know how, but either way the Englishman's gotten hold of her number. And that's what Aran was confronting Narcis about. The exact words that triggered the Englishman's frustrated outburst were this; "And may I enquire what exactly His Lordship thinks he will do with my sister?"

Narcis's angered reaction is not what irks him. Neither does the Englishman's constant denial of Aran's accusation that he's been stalking his sister. No, what enrages the Irishman is the fact that the other man turned away from him, sneering 'Who would believe you over _me_, Aran?' as he left.

It's not that it was a particularly spiteful statement. Aran has heard worse, both from Narcis Prince and other individuals, and not a lot of insults can sway him. No, it's rather because Narcis has spoken a rather chilling truth; as much as Aran hates to admit it, he is _right_. He is so completely and utterly _right_ about the boxers who will not give Aran their trust; of course they wouldn't, because the red-haired man is famous for too much playing the fool and making trouble for his own good. His track record pretty much ensures that he won't be receiving any help in this situation, even when his sister is involved. That upsets him more than anything, the fact that he can't defend his sister.

Narcis is a delightful dreaming young prince amongst older and more down-to-earth men, yet he is almost angelically deceitful. Aran is the jester, forever vulgar and brash, yet ironically he is the one who speaks the bare truth for anyone to hear. He knows this, of course, he knows it all too well - but Aran does know he won't be listened to. He's only a joker around the WVBA after all; in return for speaking the honest truth as much as he likes, he will be laughed at and ignored. But what does any of that matter? Someday Narcis will see his beauty fade. Someday _everyone_ will see his beauty fade - and along with it, his innocent exterior. Either that, his various acts of deceit and subtle lies will come to light. Aran knows that he has to do no more than wait for a while, because either way, Narcis and his delicate facade isn't going to hold out.

It would do no justice to that statement to note down in simple words just how _correct_ his assumption turns out to be; only a month after this incident, Narcis Prince gets involved in a highly publicised scandal with a fan, and has to retire from the WVBA in disgrace while Aran stays. But not yet - no one actually knows for sure that this is going to happen, not Aran, not Narcis nor anyone else in the WVBA. All the Irishman can do, really, is to wait and not make any foolish moves until something happens to the other, and when that happens he just needs to do his best to stay out of everything and enjoy the sight. And even though he doesn't know that Narcis will retire in a month, he is the first and only one yet to sense it coming.

He's, of course, fine with that. He'd much rather be taken for a fool, if that ensures that Narcis will never get his hands on his sister.

* * *

**Karma - Great Tiger**

The WVBA is not a peaceful place. It's a good place to be in, of course; for its quite astounding facilities and the social and ethnic diversity, it's certainly better off than some Associations out there. It's not a place any boxer would miss out on. But for all of its good points it is certainly not a very peaceful place - inevitable, really, because the Association contains its fair share of arrogant, inconsiderate, violent or even downright lunatic boxers. Friction is unavoidable. For most part, the rest of the boxers are advised to ignore them, although some do try to fight back using any means necessary. It can get to such a point that one has to wonder whether it's the so-called 'fair' boxers or the undeniably insane ones that need restraining.

Great Tiger is not one of those boxers.

He is one of the quietest men anyone will ever meet, not just within the WVBA; days have passed without a word from the man towards anyone in the building. It's not as if he's not good with speech; he's a fair talker once he gets started, and he's fairly outspoken in the ring, possessing one of the harshest and most infamous laughs in the history of the Association. It's more that he does not feel the need to speak out unless he is truly required to do so, or if it has to be done as a part of his act. This probably stems from the incredible self-control he gained from his faith, years of meditation and a strong sense of confidence. Great Tiger will easily brush off insults and snide remarks without even blinking an eye; this is really not as easy as it seems, especially from someone quite young who will inevitably hear at least a few of those remarks throughout his career. Even mature boxers, ones who have been in the WVBA for over a decade and are not inherently violent, will lose their composure sometimes - everyone's lost count of how many times Von Kaiser has suddenly snapped and taken his fury out on some poor unsuspecting boxer. Soda Popinski was once seen beating someone into a wall for making sarcastic comments during a particularly bad day. Even Glass Joe, who is widely regarded to have a patience of a rock, has been driven to the end of his tether in between long intervals, and seeing the Frenchman making sharp remarks and punching people outside the ring (rare, but it did happen more than once) is not really a sight that is easily forgotten.

Again, Great Tiger is not like any of them.

All he does when he feels wronged is to look at the person in question, and that's usually enough to make them back off; quite a few people in the WVBA are afraid of his 'evil eye'. It's not that his gaze is particularly judgemental or contemptuous - outside of the ring he doesn't even glare at people that much. It's more that there is a constant sense of dread when it comes to wronging Great Tiger, because sooner or later things seem to go quite grievously wrong for the boxers who have done so.

'You just wait,' his gaze seems to say to the boxers - never threatening but nevertheless far too imposing to ignore. And maybe it's just a phenomenon or a curse or whatever, but most boxers who do the man injustice outside the ring seem to go down with bad luck. Aran Ryan once had a streak of five consecutive losses - half of his total losses throughout his entire career - after drunkenly shouting abuse at Great Tiger. Of course Aran being who he is, he didn't quite learn the first time (despite being so superstitious and sensitive to things he can't explain); only toppling down the five final steps on a flight of stairs and rolling to a stop by Glass Joe's feet (to the amusement of everyone, including the Referee) somewhat humbled him enough to never go near the Indian man again.

But it's genuinely not as if Great Tiger _curses_ anyone. He doesn't actually do anything but glare; no, any bad things that might happen to those boxers are the consequences of their own actions, that's all. The man believes in the concept of karma - you gain what you sow. Bad karma comes around, so does good karma, and that's the end of it. It is simple cause and effect. This is why the Indian man is careful not to be on the wrong side of injustice, whether concerned with himself or other people, because he believes that any wrong he does will eventually come back with a vengeance upon him someday. And god forbid should that happen to him, especially during a match!

Despite having karma on his side, though, it's not easy living like this. He believes that responding to hostile manners with further active hostility will only worsen the cycle, so he does not defend himself verbally or physically against racial slurs and insults thrown towards him. Even when he has to, he tries to do this as indirectly as possible. Because he believes that the worst of all karma will fall upon those who choose to idly stand by while injustice is taking place, he often ends up stepping into fights unrelated to his affairs and only narrowly escaping in the process (of course he can't curse the hostile ones involved, either). He knows that he's not exempt from this grand cycle so he tries his utmost best to not build up bad karma; surprising how he must bend to this merely abstract concept when his meditation has granted him unbelievable physical powers!

But he has free will to choose, and he chooses to do as much good as possible. No one can blame him for that choice. Besides there is no reason why he can't play around with the concept of karma a little - he turns his head lightly towards Bald Bull, who is talking to the Referee just outside the Reception door, and gazes at him ever so lazily. Two days ago the Turkish man insulted a room full of boxers whilst in a bad temper; whilst the temper is understandable, seeing as he'd lost another match to Little Mac then, it was still rather offensive (especially since he'd insulted Great Tiger's turban). He gazes at Bald Bull, and shifts his gaze towards Disco Kid (sitting opposite him), again doing nothing but simply looking at the boy. Disco Kid finds the older man's gaze uncomfortable; it's a very focused and somewhat unnerving look and the boy is far too fidgety to withstand tension.

Soon Disco Kid gets up and murmurs an apology, stumbling over the footstool and shoving it towards the door in his hurry to get out of the place. As soon as he disappears Bald Bull enters, looking rather disgruntled at whatever the Referee's said to him - maybe he told the Turkish man to tone his manner down a little in the ring, it's a common complaint, but that's no matter at all. What matters is the angle in which the boxer enters the room-

-and success. The man stumbles and trips over the footstool by the door, letting out an exclamation of surprise followed with some incomprehensible bellowed cursing. Great Tiger smiles quietly to himself by the corner as the man kicks the footstool so that it slams into other side of the room (the receptionist exclaims 'well, _really_!'); Bald Bull then storms away, presumably to unleash his anger on a punching bag. And just like that Great Tiger has had his little revenge on the Turkish man, and as a bonus he's also ensured that this particular chain of karma will not carry on to anyone else. Bald Bull's not the type to actually maim innocent boxers because he's angered by an object, and Great Tiger never aims to actually hurt anyone - at the most, no more than a few seconds.

_Magic_, he thinks cheerfully to himself, and his smile widens just a little more.

* * *

**Language - Glass Joe/Von Kaiser**

"_Mon Dieu_..."

Glass Joe wasn't having the best day of his life. It was his tenth day as a boxer of the WVBA - he'd fought one match on the fourth day, had lost badly, and now had been approached for a second one. And he was still barely healing. Worse, he was as of now far too beat up and scared to go for lunch in the cafeteria - he was still a rookie after all, and he knew all too well that he would be a primary target for others to push around. The Frenchman didn't fancy that all. Sighing heavily, he picked up his bag and beret and slunk away to a nearby cafe; he couldn't well spare more than a hour and a half there, but at least he would probably get some peace.

He was proved wrong almost immediately when he got there. Another of the new boxers had already gone in and had taken a seat by the windows - and avoiding him was not an option, for the only remaining tables were at close proximity to him. Glass Joe bit his lip nervously, weighing his options, before he reluctantly pushed the door open and went in the cafe. He had never talked to the other boxer - he had wanted to, a couple of times, but from what little he'd picked up, the other wasn't keen on talking to people. The Frenchman cleared his throat lightly to relieve the knot that had settled there somehow; not meeting anyone's gaze, he walked in and ordered himself a coffee and a stuffed baguette roll. He was careful to avert his eyes as he took a table next to the other boxer and sat down; the latter's eyes had drifted to him and was looking him over, but Glass Joe tried to hide his discomfort as much as possible. No use in starting anything here.

The man sitting in the table next to his was known as Von Kaiser in the WVBA. He was from Berlin; he had been there ten days, having entered the association in the same session as Glass Joe, and he'd fought and won two matches already in quick succession. He seemed eager to get rid of his rookie status as soon as possible, and could be seen training with an almost savage determination during the day. Rumours were that he had been in the military, had taught boxing there, and had retired from it young - this didn't seem far from the truth. Von Kaiser could not have been more than four or five years his senior, and even the latter made him only twenty-eight years old. That wasn't old at all. Glass Joe tapped his fingers lightly on the tabletop, stealing glances at the other every now and then; Von Kaiser had a sort of disciplined and refined look to him that he liked. The older man had dark red hair and piercing green eyes, all nicely complimented with his already-much talked about mustache; but although Glass Joe thought him quite handsome, there was just something about the man that looked _off_ somehow - something severe that gave him a permanently irritated look. All this, coupled with Glass Joe's inability to speak German, made Von Kaiser unapproachable.

The older man was _still_ looking at him. Glass Joe was mercifully distracted from his discomfort when the waitress arrived with his coffee and baguette - he thanked her as she left, and and tore open a packet of sugar for his coffee. But although he was trying his best to go through his usual motions, he was far too nervous this time - Von Kaiser was looking at him, he was certain, and he wasn't sure how long he could take sitting here in silence. He could not speak German, he didn't know whether the other spoke French, and nor did the thought of talking to him in general provide him with comfort. But he eventually fought against his urge to leave and looked up, meeting the older man's eyes bravely; he had to show that he wasn't afraid of the German, no matter how intimidated he might have been in his mind.

He regretted making that decision within seconds.

The other had been scrutinizing him with a somewhat narrow gaze. Von Kaiser's eyes widened slightly, seemingly in shock, as their gaze met in mid-air - but only very slightly, and even then the rest of his expression didn't change. Unnerved, Glass Joe lowered his eyes and meekly turned back to his food; however, he was soon stopped by the sound of the other's voice.

"_Sprechen sie Deutsch_?"

His incomprehending look seemed to say all that the German needed to hear. With a rather irritated 'hmm' the man fell silent; Glass Joe dropped his stare and looked away, feeling incredibly humiliated. What was he going to do now? He strongly doubted that Von Kaiser would actually _hurt_ him for not knowing German - that would be beyond unreasonable even for the harsher WVBA boxers. But he surely wasn't going to be held anywhere near high regard in the other's eyes-

"_C'est mieux_?" Von Kaiser spoke again, this time sounding considerably gentler than before, although he now clearly wanted an answer out of the younger man. "_vous __ê__tes__ francais, non_?"

Now where had he learnt that?

"_Oui, je suis francais_," Glass Joe replied, trying to hide his surprise. "... _mais o__ù__ avez-vous appris le français_, _Monsieur_?"

"_La L__é__gion étrangère_."

Of course. The French Foreign Legion - the younger man had to admit he had never considered this particular possibility. He had thought the older man had been in the Bundeswehr, the German Army, and had been stationed there for the entirety of his military career; as for the French, he'd briefly entertained the thought that perhaps Von Kaiser had been exclusively taught the language, maybe with a private tutor. But he saw now that that wasn't the case. Von Kaiser's French was comprehensible and quite elegant but it still had some flourishes missing; his voice also lacked the _softness_ of the language, his German accent being quite harsh on the tones. He had obviously not been tutored especially in French, and it was probably more likely that the older man had picked up the language in a casual sense. But he'd have had to pick up on a great deal to communicate within the Foreign Legion without tutoring, and Glass Joe truly had to admire that.

Apparently this approval had showed visibly in Glass Joe's expression. The German leaned forwards, his features catching the sunlight from the window; and Glass Joe inwardly remarked to himself that the older man reminded him very much of a cat, noting especially the gleam in his green eyes.

"_Je vous trouvez tr__ès__ interessant_," he said quietly, never averting his gaze from the other's face. "_Excusez-moi d'avoir vous regard__é__, c'etait parce que vous avez un regard de détermination_. _J'admire ça_. _Mais je sais que vous n'__ê__tes pas parler l'allemand_; _Je trouve le français difficile __à__ parler aussi_. _Bien, je propose que nous parlions en anglais pendant que nous apprenons __à__ mieux nous connaître_."

He stopped talking and looked directly into the other's eyes.

"_Do you understand me_?"

Glass Joe hesitated only for a brief moment before he responded with a decisive nod.

"_Yes_."

That occasion marked the very beginning of their friendship. Along the way there were disputes, arguments and the like but they had never experienced a major falling out. It was fortune that their first encounter had gone so splendidly on that sunny afternoon, and neither of the two forgot that. Glass Joe gained a fair grasp of German over time, Von Kaiser carried on talking to him in French while their English improved - it was after a decade that they eventually reached a point where they did not need language to communicate.

Now they communicated via smiles, the occasional meaningful glances and appreciative words. Soon enough they would advance further in this relationship, adding increasingly more gentle and intimate touches as the months went by; but it was not the time yet. Sometimes hours would go by with the two men barely speaking more than a hundred words altogether - but they were more content than ever during these times, for they had achieved a rare degree of comfort with one another.

And for now, that was just fine with them.

* * *

The translation:

_"C'est mieux_... _vous __ê__tes__ francais, non_?" - "Is that better? You are French, no?"

"_Oui, je suis francais_... _mais o__ù__ avez-vous appris le français_, _Monsieur_?" - "Yes, I am French... but where did you learn to speak French, Monsieur?"

_"Je vous trouvez tr__ès__ interessant_... _Excusez-moi d'avoir vous regard__é__, c'etait parce que vous avez un regard de détermination_. _J'admire ça_. _Mais je sais que vous n'__ê__tes pas parler l'allemand_; _Je trouve le français difficile __à__ parler aussi_. _Bien, je propose que nous parlions en anglais pendant que nous apprenons __à__ mieux nous connaître_." - "I find you very interesting... forgive me for watching you earlier, it was because you had a look of determination on your face. I admire that. But I know that you do not speak German; I also find French difficult to sustain (I've used '...speak' to get this across). So, let us speak in English while we get to know each other better."


	5. From Melancholy to Ominous

**Author's Note:** Okay, maybe there is a schedule going on here. Approx. one update every month! Beautiful. I even had one of these written in advance too. Makes me cry to wonder how long the next three are going to take.

Notes on J-L:

**Jester - **This is an inverse relationship drabble regarding Aran's attitude towards Narcis Prince and his sister. I always think of Aran's relationship with her sister as composed of at least half genuine loathing, because she is better than he is in many things; here, he's better than her in something and he is protective and genuinely loving towards her even though he still regards her with some annoyance. His relationship with Narcis Prince, however, is given a darker twist - it's far less comedic here. I've given the drabble a slightly archaic feel in the use of 'jester' and royalty motifs... it's a comment towards the symbolic dramatic convention of The Fool as the only one who speaks the truth in plays like King Lear.

**Karma -** I've a feeling I've played around with the concept of karma a little too much. It's a pretty loose concept as it is, and I've taken my liberties with it - but I did try to make Great Tiger a nonviolent person outside of the ring. Even though he's capable of dishing out serious punishment in the game, I never can imagine him being violent outside of the ring - he strikes me as someone very quiet and meditative when not fighting. I had a lot of trouble fighting this man in the Wii game, and I've written him as rather... mischievous to compensate for this. Your mileage may vary on how justified Great Tiger is on his various actions.

**Language -** Yep, my OTP comes into light. I have broken the no pairings rule here, I'm afraid. This is the very beginning of the friendship between Von Kaiser and Glass Joe. This time I've used the interpretation that Kaiser hails from the French Foreign Legion - the most abundant foreign nationality within the Legion is German, so I took that and went with it. It would give Kaiser a very pro-France attitude and an ability to communicate more intimately with Joe, something quite important in the early days. I do realize that the drabble is somewhat 'hurried' in order to get to the main point - Kaiser's proposing a friendship a lot quicker than would be average - but that was simply due to the fact that this is meant to be a drabble. x.x

I'm noticing a trend in my stories. The Alphabet drabbles, a fair amount of them, will deal with darker sides of Von Kaiser and Don Flamenco when it comes to those characters. The reason I'm doing that is to provide quick snapshots of Kaiser's past and the circumstances of Don's drastic transformation; they've both gone through a period of extreme change and I think they're worth exploring. And I've only just realized that I've put Wii!Aran and SPO!Narcis together in my stories - I blame DeviantArt. That combination technically wouldn't happen, Narcis's interaction with Aran would really be with the more... well, _sane_ version of him. Maybe I should do that one day. It won't be a cats vs dogs sort of relationship with SPO!Aran - passive aggressive and more snarking, maybe? It'd be interesting. And it'd be a chance to write a SPO centered story.

The fifth in the series is M-O, starring Carmen, Don Flamenco, Disco Kid, Mr Sandman and Little Mac in that order. Carmen and Don Flamenco share the same drabble (although it really is for her) and Little Mac exists largely as a sort of ponder for Mr Sandman in the last one. No-pairing rule was broken, again, but this time I wrote about the only canon pairing in the Wii game. 'Melancholy' is an odd one in the sense that it is for Carmen, but seen through Don Flamenco's eyes; and it is his unfair treatment in society that is the catalyst to their breakup. 'Ominous' is similar and I suppose while it's for Mr Sandman, it's really about two equally imposing and ominous figures battling it out. These drabbles are shorter than the previous set and keeps more to the spirit. Please consider this to be a late Christmas present!

* * *

**Melancholy - Carmen **

She is studying herself by her bedside mirror when Don Flamenco checks on her in the morning. Two hours later she tries to jump out of the window, and he catches her just in time (hurriedly setting down a martini he's made for her), restraining her safely. He slams the window shut and turns to his lover.

"Carmen, darling, _please_," he pleads, holding her close to his chest. She stays there loosely, not responding, staring blankly into air for five minutes before she suddenly pushes him away.

"I can't deal with this, Donato," she whispers, pressing her forehead to the window in utter resignation; she is not wearing any makeup and she looks so helpless and young that way. "I can't. I used to have dignity, Donato," she picks up the martini and stares at it.

"I know, love, you still do." But these words are not enough to sway her back into the real world; she stays there for a while but then slowly turns away and sits down on the bed, staring blankly into the ceiling. The matador notices that she is barefoot - she obviously wants no more looking after or complexities in her life, she obviously wasn't planning the clumsy attempt at suicide. She hasn't dressed up for it, for one thing, and all these years of knowing Carmen he knows that she would make a fuss about everything, even her own death.

Would have, anyway, if not for his sore loss.

Ever since he suffered his most humiliating defeat yet from Little Mac, their relationship has been in sudden unsteady decline. Arguably it's exponentially worse that it's turned out this way; for a month or so after his defeat, Carmen was actually extremely supportive and kind, and he could probably even call that period the very peak of their relationship when their trust and love they felt for each other began to be seriously tested. He'd rather have preferred that she had turned away from the very start, if it was going to turn out like this. She'd acknowledged Little Mac's power and skill, but she'd cared for her lover a lot more and had even nursed him back to health. She had told him it would be all right, there would be no more such imbalanced losses in his career, and even if there were losses again (near misses or fair or otherwise), she wouldn't mind - after all, he wouldn't be human if he didn't falter every now and then, she'd said while nodding wisely. Even now Don Flamenco doesn't doubt that she understands him, and she can bear the losses in his career.

What she couldn't bear, ultimately, is everybody else.

"I used to be proud, and now what am I? A failure of a woman, in a failing relationship with a failing boxer! That's far too much failure for me to handle. Pour me another martini, Donato, this one's far too weak," she glares at him, tears streaking down her face and yet somehow still managing to look fierce. "what's the point of you going to the WVBA today when Mac's just going to beat you down again? Pour me another, you son of a bitch!"

"Carmen, _mi amor_!"

"Carmen _nothing_!" she cries, and then a dreadful calm descends. He stares at her for a few seconds, and slowly plucks out the glass of martini that she is holding defiantly towards him, turning slowly and leaving the room. He briefly hesitates at the staircase, wondering if she should be left alone in such a delicate state, but decides that for now she is safe.

Yes, it was everyone else that she couldn't bear, that must be the case. It was all very minor at first, just a few people making snide comments at them in the streets, mocking his loss. They just walked past with their heads held up high then. But Little Mac grew in strength, more and more - and the main object of the mockery shifted from the Minor Circuit to the Major Circuit, because out of all the others, they probably could have stopped the boy progressing any further. The Major Circuit was the boy's true start to his challenge and the first time he was shown to actively struggle; had the boxers been a little more careful, they might have beaten the boy to submission.

It got to be too much for him and Carmen eventually. The final kicker occurred when Little Mac defeated Mr. Sandman, gaining himself the title of the youngest Champion ever. Carmen wept because she could see that there was no stopping the boy, and there would not be a large chance of the matador ever redeeming himself for his flaw; the matador himself had sat in silence and utter shock, staring at the screen for a long time. From then, Mac's name was all over the headlines, and so-called analysts began to pick apart every fight and every high and low point in the boy's career - and of course, the turning point was deemed to be the very moment that Little Mac exploited the matador's fatal weakness in his style to win the match. It was the very point, they said, where Mac's career became a very serious business indeed - had Don Flamenco been aggressive and alert, the boy wouldn't have gotten the Major Circuit belt (at least, not as quickly as he did), and would not have taken everyone in the World Circuit by complete surprise. If the matador had not been so laid back...

But it's unfair. He knows it, Carmen knows it, everyone knows it. It's unfair to pin all the blame on him. But the damage is done and they can't do a damned thing about it - his reputation has been tarnished, and it will stay that way for a long time unless he does something completely heroic and off the wall. It's this very fact that's prying him and Carmen apart, that the stain on his reputation cannot go away; even they try to forget and put it behind them, someone or something is going to come along and remind them endlessly of it. They're both far too tired of it already.

And now their relationship is unrecognizable. Carmen is unresponsive at best and suicidal at worst nowadays, always talking of the loss of dignity she suffered, caused by cruel jeers and harsh words from people regarding her relationship with a 'failed' boxer. It wouldn't have been so bad either, had the people around her (and herself) not been so proud and haughty - but it had happened, she was unhappy, and from that point onwards her depression did the rest of the work. The matador brushes a hand over his forehead, sighing heavily as he pours another martini and heads up again with heavy footsteps. As he expected, she is still sitting on the bed, her eyes closed and resting her head on one hand with a small frown. He sets down the martini - she barely glances at it - and sits down beside her. "Remember when we first fell in love," she says, but it doesn't seem to be directed at anyone. "we were so very in love, weren't we? We talked of having children, didn't we? We can't now, though. I can't handle it, Donato. I can't. I tried, I really did, but it's too much for me. I'm sorry that I'm not brave enough. We're going to break apart."

"It will be over one day, my beautiful Carmencita," he whispers, holding her close. "one day, we'll look back on this, my love, we'll recall to ourselves what a pain this entire thing was. But it'll only be a thing of the past, don't you see?"

She gazes at him blankly. He fancies that he sees a sort of flicker in her eyes at his words, but he knows she doesn't see, she doesn't. He holds onto her anyway, and waits for a sign from her, a sign that she still loves him and will be his for ever. Outside the window he hears the sounds of the city below, the murmur of the crowd merging into the sound of the traffic, and wishes that he will have this moment engraved in his mind for all eternity; they're not happy, but in this one fragile moment they are more together than ever, him holding a vulnerable Carmen in his arms.

"Donato," Carmen says.

She is right.

* * *

**Nocturnal - Disco Kid**

There's no such thing as darkness for Disco Kid. His world is filled with disco music and strobe lighting, and even when he's away from his frequented clubs, his house is illuminated brightly all the time. The light often catches on his numerous trophies he won for his dancing skills, and they gleam multiple shades of gold and silver - this is one of his favourite sights, seeing his achievements shimmer and sparkle, and he always makes sure to polish them often.

But while he does not distinguish between night and day in terms of lighting, he does make clear distinctions. He's alternating between two lives - by day he gets his sleep and goes to the WVBA for matches or training. By night he's out somewhere, dancing until he collapses in utter exhaustion - but always having the time of his life. The fact that he chooses to be more active by night is perhaps why he doesn't have a good record overall, but what is all that compared to the kind of nightlife he has? Disco Kid is aware that if he wants to keep on boxing - or at the very least not end up like Glass Joe, the poor man - he's got to rack up more wins and pay more attention to sharpening his skills. But the time to start is always tomorrow; and tomorrow never really comes. He's not sure how long he'll keep the dancing lifestyle up, of course, but he's young and talented and he has no plans to give it up just yet. Maybe he'll give it a year, two years - maybe ten.

Besides, didn't dancing give him the passion for boxing as well? Wasn't he attracted to the freedom of movement that boxing - especially in the WVBA - offered? Wasn't he attracted to the fact that boxing was more than just punching opponents to the canvas, and he could incorporate his dance moves to create a brand new style that moved far smoother than any boxer would have ever seen? He finds that concept of being allowed - no, _encouraged_ to develop his own style of boxing very attractive. And it has worked to a degree, for he has certainly been the subject of many recent discussions regarding the WVBA boxers. Of course he has yet to polish up certain things, but he's getting there slowly, using the rare times he's wide awake by day to focus on training.

For now, though, his life by night is far more suited to him.

Sometimes, just before the dawn breaks, Disco Kid leaves the club he's spent the good part of the evening at and dances down the deserted streets. He doesn't bother taking his car anywhere during these times; just the feeling of waltzing down the pavement, skipping across the roads (there are very few cars at that time), watching the streetlights go out one by one as light slowly enters the horizon is more than enough for him. When he's passing buildings and houses, occasionally he catches sight of the lights turning on as he walks past, the occupants freshly awake, and that lightens his mood like nothing else can.

To be surrounded in both light and darkness and taking center stage of that intricate contrast; it's what his nocturnal life provides, and Disco Kid loves it that way.

* * *

**Ominous - Mr Sandman**

He stalks along the corridor, keeping his steps aggressive but slow - this allows him to part through the busy crowd of boxers blocking his way. Conversations die out, excited murmurs being shushed quickly, all eyes (either frightened or fascinated) following his form as he walks along.

From what small snatches of talk he can hear, they're all debating today's big match. Mr Sandman sneers at the thought; what need is there for a _debate_, he thinks smugly to himself. Compared to him, his challenger today is nothing, a mere small scrap of a boy up against his gigantic bulk. Little Mac, he recalls the name to himself, and grunts lightly in dismissal - at a tiny five feet seven, 'little' is right indeed! He goes into one of the empty training rooms and bangs the door shut behind him, and stand there for a moment, eyeing the punching bags in front of him.

Yet despite his confidence, he has to admit to feeling a sort of contemptuous fascination towards his challenger. The reason that _he_ has to fight off this small scrap, as such, is because no one has succeeded. It's seldom Mr Sandman has to fight a new challenger - in fact, he hasn't fought one for over two years, contenting himself with exhibition matches around that time. He's not a friendly man by nature, of course, but it's not to say that he's completely isolated and places himself mentally above everyone else. He had some trust in the boxers to keep to their respective rankings and Circuits; and maybe the boxers have been slacking off lately, or maybe they've been taken completely by surprise by a young talent, but this is genuinely the first time in years that Mr Sandman's trust in the WVBA has been shaken. It's not as if he expected much from the Minor Circuit boxers (although he holds conscious respect for the older men there), nor did the defeat of the Major Circuit boxers surprise him, but he'd expected the boy to falter soon after that. Little Mac is nowhere near that point, apparently, because he's blazed right through some of the strongest and the most skilled boxers out there to take on the Champion himself.

He walks up to a punching bag and casually flicks it, watching it sway back and forth. Yes, the boy is rather fascinating. And Mr Sandman would probably have legitimately thought him a worthy opponent, perhaps even one to be feared, had Little Mac been taller and older - but he just finds it incredibly hard to believe that such a young and short boy has enough skill to punch his way through numerous (far more experienced) boxers and stand before him without fear. It's sort of unnerving in a way he does not wish to admit, nor can even adequately describe. Mr Sandman thinks through various factors that may have placed this boy at an advantage over older boxers, but he genuinely can't think of anything plausible. Little Mac has always been tested negative for drugs, so they can cross that one out; it would be disgraceful indeed if drugs were what the boy was relying on, anyway, and he would have been caught before he even got past the Minor Circuit. The only other thing he can think of is the fact that the boy is being trained by the one-time Champion Doc Louis - but there is a limit to how much a trainer can influence his pupil, though Mr Sandman suspects that there might be something shifty about the chocolate that Doc Louis keeping eating while Mac is in the ring. Even so, that's all _him_, not the boy, so that's probably not it either. He has to come to the distasteful conclusion that Little Mac is simply a brilliant boxer who's also had a lot of luck on his side. Not a very comforting combination in his eyes at all.

As much as he hates to admit it, somewhere deep inside his mind, he now feels slightly uneasy about this match. This is upsetting to the Champion for the sole reason that he has never felt this way about a boxing match before, never in his entire career. He has to laugh at himself - Mr Sandman cuts an ominous figure with his piercing, glowering stare, his thick powerful bulk and the deceptively fast speed of his punches. He has never been defeated before. This is a man whose appearance alone has reduced some boxers to pleading with the Referee to let them give up the match, and countless boxers from other Associations to deny requests for exhibition matches out of pure fear. And appearance aside, he is one of the most talented and skilled boxers to have graced the Association in years. Mr Sandman has nothing to be afraid of, nothing - so why does he feel the tiniest flicker of dread?

Little Mac's been lucky, he reassures himself. When it comes to real talent and reflexes, he will fall short. After all, Little Mac seems to have worked his way up the ranks with the perception that larger and stronger boxers are fairly readable and slow once gotten used to - something that Mr Sandman does not apply to, with his incredible speed, strength and sheer unpredictability. He's something Little Mac has never dealt with before, and probably won't be dealing with for a long time afterwards, if tonight goes well for the Champion. With that thought in mind, and to test his aim, Mr Sandman steps back to give the punching bag a hard shove - and when it comes swinging back towards him, he crouches slightly and unleashes an insanely fast right hook at it in less than a second. The rope holding the bag gives way and snaps with a loud _crack_; and the bag goes flying across the room, hitting the opposite wall with an echoing thud and sliding down it to lie crumpled on the floor.

He's still all there. That will do. Outside, he hears the Referee's voice announcing that the match will start in ten minutes - Little Mac must be within the ring now, the crowd excitedly milling about to see the match of the decade.

He knocks his fists together, stands up, and starts to slowly walk towards the door. He is smiling.

Showtime.


	6. From Paparazzi to Reflection

**Author's Note:** Slightly later update this time. But at least I made the deadline within January! O m O;; That has got to count for something. I've been awfully busy this month, being exam month and all. And exam weeks are never good times to write anything that's _not_ related to exams. But on with the comments for the last chapter...

**Melancholy** - This is again a slightly odd drabble, because while it is devoted to Carmen's melancholy, it's told through Don Flamenco's view - who is also suffering from his own depression caused by society's unfair treatment regarding his loss. It's quite largely about the both of them and fills a huge gap that explains their breakup. Raymond Carver was a big influence in this drabble. Given that not much actually happens, you might not think it, but I feel that it's one of the saddest things I've written recently. Especially because neither of the lovers are being treated fairly at all, and despite going though all of this, Don Flamenco's defeat is nothing more than one more win to Little Mac. Pretty damn tragic.

**Nocturnal** - This is actually more like a drabble in the sense that it's to the point, a fairly vivid snapshot of Disco Kid's life and it's _short_. (awkward laugh) I'm fairly proud of this one, personally. I don't think it's far off from his personality at all. Disco Kid's probably not a good boxer in general, due to lack of practice more than genuine lack of talent - I've always wondered how he can have a worse record than Von Kaiser and still be ahead of the man, and chances are, Disco Kid really is quite a good boxer. He just needs to pay more attention to it. I also imagine he suffers from motivation problems with boxing, especially when the lack of dancing is concerned - gathered from the Title Defense cutscene, where he was probably the closest to quitting the sport entirely when Little Mac defeated him. Disco Kid's always been a bit of a joke in my fics so far, so here's a serious and positive tribute to him.

**Ominous** - Another of those confusing duality drabbles where it seems to be about one person only to turn out to be something completely different. Well, 'ominous' is already pretty ambiguous enough as it is. I like to think that this drabble is addressing two similarly ominous and skilled boxers, moments before they battle it out between each other. I've written about Mac's nervousness before the final fight, I've written about his eventual and well-deserved triumph, but I've never addressed Sandman's point of view before. Mr Sandman is still a rather vague figure for me despite this - I established that he has some respect for older boxers, but strictly in an out-of-the-ring sense, and is (as expected from the champion) ruthless and powerful. I'm proud of this drabble, but overall felt a little let down because it established Mac for me more than it did Sandman. This will be fixed later on, I hope.

Chaos Wielder/ I'm glad you picked up on Carmen's unusual harshness - that was the entire point of the drabble, that the way Don's being treated is simply anything but fair (from society and from his lover). The world hasn't been kind to them, and Carmen simply cracked to the pressure first, leading to an unsealable rift opening between them. It's a huge cycle of hurting, and no one comes out happy. Wiser, perhaps, but not happy. And of course, none of it's fair. As for seeking help, perhaps the woman was so beaten by the treatment the external world gave her that she could not even think of going outside for help. Perhaps she tried, and it was of no help to her, leading to her being a bit of a shut-in and provoking a sort of hedgehog's dilemma between her and Don. It is never a nice thing when that happens. (The review came out just fine, btw. I've had a long string of reviews being added since the last installment, something I'm quite amazed at... O.o)

The sixth installment features drabbles P-R, starring Bald Bull, Super Macho Man, the Referee, and Glass Joe respectively. Bald Bull and Super Macho Man share the same one, and Glass Joe gets his second solo drabble here. (Btw, are the presence of non-boxing characters such as Carmen and the Referee interesting enough?) There are no pairings, so don't let _anyone_ tell you otherwise. O.o These drabbles were ridiculously hard to write. I have no idea why. I'm not convinced I did a good job, either. These ones keep more to the spirit of the drabble in length but I feel they're slightly dryer this month... I have no clue at all. This month has pretty much just... sucked the soul out of me. x.x Hopefully it'll be better on the next one, seeing as I'm now fully sure that I will finish this series.

Read on...

* * *

**Paparazzi - Bald Bull and Super Macho Man**

Every boxer in the WVBA would have to deal with the press at some point in their career; no one was an exception to this rule. They could be pestered about everything - about a hard-won and/or spectacular victory, a particularly humiliating loss to an underdog, any rumours and gossip that happened to be circulating around, and many other things. The boxers all had their own individual opinions towards the press as well - most were all right with minor reports about their victories, or small interviews with reputable magazines or newspapers, but quite strongly opposed to anything towards the negative end of the scale. Some boxers who valued their privacy and honour (like Piston Hondo or Von Kaiser) often frowned upon _anything_ about them in the media, regardless of whether it was a positive or negative depiction, and took much care to conceal themselves whenever in view of the press.

But two men in particular took their opinions to both ends of the extreme within the Association. Bald Bull was notorious for being actively hostile and violent towards anyone he recognised as a reporter or one of the paparazzi - the sight of a reporter (white-faced from utter fear) being chased through the corridors of the WVBA with the extremely angry Turkish man at his heels was actually not an uncommon one. Bald Bull had also made it a rule to snatch out films from nearby cameras, even going as far as refusing to take photos with his fans in case they were ever handed over to the paparazzi. One had to wonder why the man didn't lose any fans with such an uncooperative attitude, but he'd always had a large stream of steady admirers and that was simply that. No one really knew why he went to such extreme methods to conceal himself from the press, but given the man's personality and notoriously short temper, it wasn't too hard to think of a reason. Rumour had it that Bald Bull's aversion was simply because of too much pestering from journalists in Istanbul, who had even gone as far as to bother him while he was enjoying a bath - and frankly, it wasn't too far from the truth. Despite all his efforts, though, the media kept on clinging to him with increasing stubbornness, and this only contributed more to his impatience and hostility.

Super Macho Man, however, couldn't be any more different. He did not just embrace the press, he integrated himself so completely into their world that he was extremely well-versed in their ways. He knew how everything related to the press worked, and used this fact to arrange favours for close friends or to his own advantage. Sometimes he would call the press over to the WVBA for no reason apart from offering photoshoots of himself (and some willing others) or holding small-scale interviews to ensure his name would appear regularly on articles. He was wise enough to know that he should keep out of headlines, because too much exposure could very quickly lead to ruin - just a small mention in the paper or a magazine was usually enough. The man would also keep quiet about any rumours circulating the WVBA (unless it was primarily about him, of course) and refused to disclose any secrets or details about other boxers. This unwillingness to involve other boxers was likely the only factor that kept the others at bay; at least they couldn't accuse him of invading their privacy. But it was unfortunately too often the case that Super Macho Man had a crowd of reporters and paparazzi following his every move, and this _never_ translated to a good thing when he and Bald Bull happened to cross paths.

"You know, man, you've got to relax once in a while," Super Macho Man had even yelled at the other once, after one of their usual clashes. "look at all those people you're neglecting! Call yourself a boxer! When you signed up to the WVBA, man, you automatically ticked the box giving your permission for _these_ (he gestured towards the group following him) guys to take pictures and interview you. At least show some decency and let some of the crowd following you to come over here, or something! Then they'd be treated right."

"I wish you _would_ take them away," had been Bald Bull's only gruff retort before he shut himself into one of the training rooms, safely away from the clutches of the media; he didn't come out until the Referee himself had to knock and inform the man that night had fallen and the building was going to be closed.

None of this was too new to the other boxers, though. The two boxers simply operated on such different principles that friction was inevitable. Bald Bull carried on being vehemently opposed to the presence of journalists and photographers in the building, and Super Macho Man kept on bringing them in. They were always going to be at odds, at the opposite ends of the spectrum, and the above incident was simply the most direct confrontation they'd shared on their beliefs - both men had ignored the other for a couple of weeks afterwards, and in the revolving eye of the hurricane were everyone else. It had certainly been a very awkward two weeks.

Relations between the two were patched up afterwards, however, as by that time Little Mac had reached and torn straight through the World Circuit. Bald Bull had been severely shaken up about it, but at least he did not have to suffer the indignity of having his defeat widely publicized on live television as Super Macho Man did; Bald Bull's loss was only mentioned as a small article on some newspapers, but the other's loss made headlines. And that was the ultimate downfall the white-haired man had been heading towards all the time. And watching this, the other did the most unexpected thing in response.

When half the journalists and camera crew who had followed Super Macho Man faithfully all that time jumped ship to Little Mac (much to the boy's own annoyance and confusion), the Turkish man had quietly sent some of the paparazzi trailing after him in the other man's direction, allowing rare pictures to be taken to keep them complacent. Being asked politely to do anything by Bald Bull was a rare sight, and the paparazzi were more than happy to play along - and even though he didn't say anything about it then, Super Macho Man never again made snide comments about the other's dislike for the media. It had been quite a sacrifice that the Turkish man had made; it went against everything he had stood for until that point, and that was something worth keeping in mind.

It was not a truce. Afterwards, Bald Bull treated it as a one-off incident and carried on with his usual methods of dealing with the ever-curious media, and Super Macho Man carried on maintaining his (reduced, but still present) portion of journalists and photographers. The latter had become enlightened to the fact that there was still more for him to understand in the world of journalism, that he did not indeed know 'everything' - he wasn't exactly _humbled_ by his experience, being far too angered with Little Mac for that, but he was wiser and warier as to how it all worked. Nothing had changed, _really_; they still kept to their own beliefs, everyone else respected their views and left them alone, and that was simply it. It was just that the younger man no longer protested very much when he saw a reporter being chased out, and the older man resorted more to keeping himself well hidden from the media instead of using violence. That was all.

At least, both men told themselves that anyway.

* * *

**Quintessential - The Referee**

Every boxing match needed at least three vital things: a boxing ring, two boxers, and an appreciative audience. With even one of those components missing it would not be a proper boxing match; it would only be at best a sparring between two opponents in a bare room, and that would not do. The WVBA was more than happy to provide those things and more, of course. The place was simply not a typical Association providing matches in darkened corners of pubs and small cramped boxing rings. No, not at all - every match was a show in itself in the WVBA, and as a result, even the smallest and the most minor fights drew a sizable and dedicated crowd.

But no matter how large the crowd was, how famous (or infamous) the boxers were, or even how well designed the place was - it would all fall apart without a Referee watching over the entire operation. His job was more than to just announce the winner of a match and occasionally do a countdown. No, the man was responsible for many more things within the Association than his job title indicated, and everyone knew it, even though they barely thought about it or voiced it at the best of times.

The current Referee of the WVBA was the third one to take the position since the start of the Association, and arguably, he had kept it the longest. His time in the place amounted to over two decades of looking after the boxers, taking notes of their family situations, watching the men come and go through the years - he had stayed there for so long that there were no active boxers in the place any more who could even remember a time without him. It wasn't easy having his job, anyone with half an eye could see that; aside from personal matters with the boxers, he also had the unenviable position of restraining men who got out of hand, whether from within the ring or within the audience, and despite being a man of fair strength and build it was not uncommon that he himself suffered injuries in the process (Bald Bull had once literally headbutted him out of the ring and into the crowd, giving him a concussion). He organized every match within the Association, and also took care to deliver any invitations for exhibition matches from other places to the boxers concerned personally. And yet despite the exhausting amount of work, the Referee always looked his best whenever he judged fights, with his neatly-ironed outfit, black bowtie and a well-trimmed mustache and beard.

Otherwise, the man was a rather enigmatic figure. No one in the audience paid attention to him, yet all the boxers respected and followed him faithfully. He wielded immense power within the Association but _months_ could go by without a rookie boxer learning his name and reputation. The Referee didn't even talk very much during fights, only speaking for a countdown, giving the cue to fight, or announcing the end of a match. And despite all of this he was truly the archetype of what every boxing referee should be like, being gentlemanly and staying close to the sidelines but at the same time being strict and fair.

Boxers came and went, the crowd swelled and reduced in size by season, but the Referee alone remained constant. This would always be the case even when he could no longer be present in the ring. He knew that another man with the same moral code and judgement would take over when retirement came for him; the change would be made so that no one in the casual crowd would even actually realize that the Referee had been replaced. The man wasn't too bitter about that - it was not his job to be remembered for his work and he understood that all too well. Of course, he could have had his own share of fame by giving controversial decision victories; but the man had never done so, choosing to make fair and justified decisions instead, and it had all paid off. That rule had been vigorously tested when Little Mac had been sweeping through the ranks, and it hadn't been just a one-time occurrence that he'd had to deal with a boxer who was threatening to kick up a huge fuss over a defeat, but he had dealt with it because without him the foundations would fall apart completely.

Fairness. Sportsmanship. Professionalism. Devotion. And of course, genuine love for the sport. The Referee had it all. He was the most perfect embodiment of boxing within the WVBA, even moreso than the boxers themselves, without quite knowing it - and that was exactly the reason he was respected in the Association.

That suited him just fine.

* * *

**Reflection - Glass Joe**

Glass Joe was studying himself.

He was not a vain man by nature, unlike Super Macho Man or even like his friend Don Flamenco; but recently he had gotten into the habit of closely examining his reflection five minutes before he left his apartment in the morning. It allowed him to check that he looked clean and presentable, for one thing, but the real reason was something quite different. He had only started checking his reflection to see how he must appear to others; over time, this turned into scrutinizing every aspect of his appearance to deduce if he could discover anything new about himself.

It was usually always the same. His face, more often bruised or cut than not, still retained almost childlike youthfulness despite his age of thirty-five years. But he knew that his young appearance would barely be the first thing people would notice about him; if they did not care for the bruises and scars (or more rarely, he was unhurt), they would surely realize that the Frenchman had an unusual lack of expression. Glass Joe himself had acknowledged it - he did not smile nor frown very much, and on the occasions he did, his expressions were fleeting and lasted only a second or two. Most of the time he had a blank expression on his face, and it was not unknown for that expression to last his entire day in the WVBA. He'd had more than enough evidence to believe that he could not express his emotions adequately - he'd heard it from Von Kaiser, he had observed them on the mirror, and he could sometimes even _feel _the faint shadow of those expressions skimming over his face. It was insubstantial enough for him to only feel it at rare occasions.

He tried a smile. It didn't reach his eyes.

He leaned against the mirror, pressing the side of his face onto the glass, staring at himself unhappily. His fingers traced over his own reflection slowly; and Glass Joe remarked to himself, for the thousandth time, how very plain-looking he was. He did not have a distinguishing feature to be proud of; he never felt unique or even very much like an individual at the best of times. It didn't help that he was even less capable of identifying himself as belonging to a group or a family; if he could either stick out amongst a crowd, or blend in completely, he probably would have had a place to call his own. But he didn't feel particularly unique, and at the same time, he could not merge nor identify with his peers very closely. He didn't even have a family; being orphaned at such a young age, he had no relatives that he knew of at all, and thus no one closer than his few friends by to confide in.

And there were a few things you could never tell people who were just your friends, after all. His problem was that he was alone, very much painfully alone, and he could do very little about it.

Where were his parents now, he thought to himself; he gazed blankly at the reflection of the clock in the mirror, seeing that it was already eight o'clock and only half caring that he was late. He had spent so long wondering about them - three-and-a-half decades of agonizing, searching and despairing about his abandonment as a mere newborn - and he looked for clues, anything that might have connected him to his birth parents. But he had spent nearly all his life trying and he'd been forced to admit many times that it was simply impossible to find them with what very clues he had; perhaps they weren't even alive in this world any more, perhaps they had died a long time back when he was still a child, and he would never know. He had only been two days old when he was found that morning on the steps of the orphanage, so he could roughly deduce that his parents, whoever they were, were at least somewhere in the city. They obviously had never lived anywhere near the area, they would have been traced too easily, but the idea of coming to Paris from a different city just to abandon a newborn baby made very little sense. They had to be in the city, they just _had_ to be - but how would _he_ ever know? Perhaps his parents had never been exclusively together in the first place, maybe they'd broken apart long before his mother had given birth to him. His newfound habit of checking his reflection probably had its heart in this issue; he had turned to his own body, his features, the only thing he had ever inherited directly from his parents, to keep up his futile searching. Every time he saw someone with a similar feature to him, such as the shape of the mouth or the colour of the eyes, he would gaze at them out of the corner of his eye and briefly entertain the thought that maybe the stranger was a distant relative. The stronger the resemblance, the stronger these fantasies grew in return; and (much to his own grief) he found that it also became more painful to lose them in a crowd, never to see them again. Strange he felt such strong emotions towards people who did not know him, were likely never related to him at all, for that just one vain hope-

"Mreow?"

"Musette," he whispered, turning towards the sound; his smile was sudden and genuine this time. By his feet stood his cat, looking up at him with curious green eyes - as he bent down to stroke her back gently, she let out a soft 'mrrr' and rubbed her face against his palm. Meowing loudly, she sat down on her haunches, looking up at him with large bright eyes as if to question why he was still standing in front of the mirror instead of going to the WVBA.

"_Je suis __d__é__solé_," Glass Joe murmured to her, bending down to pick her up and hold her to his chest. She did not protest, but upon coming into closer contact with her owner, she butted his chest with her head, expressing her feelings on him running late. It was a break from the routine, and she was worried. "_je devrais y aller maintenant_."

Musette purred at this, satisfied that he was keeping to routine again, and contentedly nuzzled against Glass Joe. Holding his cat, he looked back into the mirror, still smiling; and for once, his reflection smiled back at him without awkwardness and in plain sight. His gaze softened; he kissed the top of her head gently, and let her down, looking back at her and the mirror for another few seconds or so before he nodded.

"_A tr__è__s bientôt, ma petite_," he whispered to her; Musette meowed at him and rubbed against his leg once before settling down on the carpet. He grinned lightly and then headed out the door, pushing it open, walking outside and into the cool frosty sunlight. He wasn't all alone, he thought to himself. At least he had his cat with him, who had been a loving companion for years now. He was alive, there was work to do, and he would do it without fail.


	7. From Suppress to Undeterred

**Author's Note:** Managed to get this done a few days earlier than usual! Not medal-worthy, but quite an achievement in my current state. I do think updates on March and potentially April might be stretching it, though, because I have SO MUCH ELSE to do. Gahh! T-T But Alphabet is nearly over, so I guess that's good on its own. Comments on the last chapter are:

**Paparazzi -** Pretty much exactly what it says on the tin. Bald Bull was pestered by the media and shows very little regard for them, while Super Macho Man simply loves them to bits. This one came about when I was wondering how on earth those two personalities could stand each other in the WVBA, especially when the former's berserk button would be triggered every time he saw Super Macho Man's paparazzi posse. It was a sort of hilarious yet strangely interesting picture that had to be written. Bald Bull's comment is harsher in hindsight, of course. None of those boxers actively mean any offense to the other. But regardless of all that, it can't be said that no one learnt any lessons through their experiences, although they tell themselves otherwise. Little Mac is again the catalyst to these changes, I see - either I use him too much or he is just that big of an influence. O_o

**Quintessential -** A non-boxer drabble as you saw in 'Melancholy', which was dedicated to Carmen. I hope these come across as interesting and not just pointless ways of cutting down on having to write for boxers, gahhh. This one really comes from understanding what's going on in a few boxer intermissions in the Wii game - the Referee has the unenviable position of keeping in control two boxers in the game, one of which is probably out for your blood (if in Title Defense, probably all of them are), and he manages it. Also his look is so classic and gentlemanly that it's sort of remarkable how he manages to juggle all of those things. Referees by definition take care of the rules of the game, but I extended his role further in here. Of course, to do all this in a fair manner, the very essence of the boxing spirit needs to be concentrated in him. Despite some humiliation and some injuries suffered from his job, he keeps going. He's a good man.

**Reflection -** This is a serious drabble that deals with Glass Joe's struggle with his past and self-confidence. He's three years younger than in the games. This is really best understood if you've read 'Solitude' from my other collection, Written in Fine Print. I see Glass Joe as an orphan who's gone through some horrible things in his life and still suffers from the remains of it. I like to focus on his helplessness and inner angst, though arguably I do it too much, considering how much stuff I write for the man. x.x I feel that I've done a good job in this one, personally, it's quite focused and takes part in a time frame that can't have taken more than ten or so minutes. Also it's quite happy at the end, because he realises that he is not alone - this is an important realisation to make for him in order to recover, and he's taking small steps towards it. Consider it an almost sequel to 'Solitude'.

... These comments are getting ridiculously long. I swear this section gets longer than some of the drabbles here with each update. But anyway, this is the seventh installment featuring drabbles S-U, starring Von Kaiser, Glass Joe, Piston Hondo and Super Macho Man in that order. Von Kaiser and Glass Joe share the same one, 'Suppress', but it's very much just for Kaiser. No slash, but I do think this is one of the best incarnations of Von Kaiser I've ever written. These drabbles were far easier to write than the previous set, but I do fear that 'Suppress' veers too far into oneshot territory. I do think it's a fine piece, although some pretty non-family friendly descriptions of violence and PTSD are included. However, don't expect anything from me at March - going to Italy for a trip for a week then and working furiously on my coursework too.

Chaos Wielder/ Yep, Piston Hondo would very much like his privacy and honour kept in pristine condition! I've added that small aspect to his drabble. I worried that Super Macho Man's attitude to the press may be seen as too out of character, but I'm glad that it didn't seem completely out of proportion. I mean, the guy needs to have cameramen and journalists coming from somewhere to add to his fame - I wouldn't be surprised if he gave them plenty of slack and gave consideration to their demands to keep them happy and safely on his side.

Read on.

* * *

**Suppress - Von Kaiser**

"Have you ever wondered how to kill a person with a bayonet, Joseph?"

The younger man, better known as Glass Joe, blinks and stares at the man sitting next to him. This isn't quite the conversation opener he expected. "What do you mean?" he asks in turn; the other man doesn't reply but rummages around in his pockets for a second or so before taking out a small white packet. He plucks out a thin cigarette and places it delicately in between his lips, fishing out a slim silver lighter and lighting the tip of it. All this is done in a few deft movements; Glass Joe watches, half spellbound at the other's dexterity and the surprising amount of elegance the older man displays. He leans back and takes hold of the cigarette between his index and middle fingers, inhaling the smoke slowly and seemingly savouring the sensation. His name is Von Kaiser, thirty-one years of age, four years Glass Joe's senior; he's a military man, disciplined and stoic, much admired within the WVBA. Rumour has it that he was a baron once, but he has neither confirmed or denied it; he's a very thoughtful man, it's rare that he starts up any conversation on his own, and even rarer that it should be about personal matters.

"I asked you if you'd ever wondered how to kill someone with a bayonet," he finally says, letting the pearly smoke out in one long breath, sounding uncannily like a sigh. The younger man coughs lightly and he looks over with under-ether green eyes. "do you mind that I smoke?"

"_Non_, not at all, Monsieur Von Kaiser," Glass Joe says, his cheeks lightly flushed, adding the name for firm emphasis - in truth he does mind the smoke, but he doesn't want to get on the other's bad side. Besides, there is also something fairly striking about Von Kaiser and the way he holds his cigarette - he doesn't want to lose that image, it's such a powerful one. Not yet, at least. But of course like most beautiful fantasies in life, this goes unrecognized - Von Kaiser simply takes another puff of the cigarette before dropping it on the ground and unceremoniously crushing it out with the heel of his boots.

"_Ich entschuldige mich_," Von Kaiser says tonelessly as he looks over, his eyes still fairly distant. They resemble a sort of thousand-yard stare, only vaguely focused on Glass Joe's form. "it calms my nerves."

The younger man remains silent. Something deep and personal is coming, and he simultaneously anticipates it with a sort of eagerness and braces himself for it. Von Kaiser is a man of a thousand secrets and it's rare that he lets on one like this.

"Well, do you?"

"_Non_, Monsieur."

"Understandable," the German replies in the same blank tone and looks at the sky. "I trust you haven't had military experience, let alone ever kill someone," a long sideways glance. "or have you? _Thought _of it, even?"

The Frenchman shakes his head, horror evident in his features. "_Non, non_! I would never dream of such a thing! _Mon Dieu, c'est_-"

Von Kaiser suddenly turns sharply towards him, his gaze narrowed. "Do not _judge_ me," he cuts in, his voice considerably more embittered than the Frenchman has ever heard. "compassion was not a part of my job. _Ich habe keine Schuld! _ I _had_ to, no matter how much I tried to avoid it. I would like to make that very clear to you before I tell you anything else. _Verstanden_?"

Silence. Glass Joe nods, his face quite pale.

"Killing with a bayonet is not a simple process, Joseph. People make the assumption that one or two stabs will do the job, but it seldom will. It will likely be all right if you aim for the heart and get it right first time - but simply stabbing and withdrawing a couple of times on any other part of the body doesn't work. He will get up and chase you before he bleeds to death. You cannot risk that."

"No."

The German takes a deep breath. "We used to practice killing men with bayonets. We were taught to stab deeply in the stomach. Not the heart or anywhere else we deemed weak spots, because the abdomen is a larger and easier target - and _twist_ it sideways so that it will tear the intestines to shreds. Then he will die a slow, painful death lying on the battlefield; of course should the damage be bad enough, or someone else finishes them off, death may not be _slow_ by all means. But if you just stab and pull the bayonet out, he will likely get back up and tear _you_ to shreds instead before he goes down. That was what we were taught to do, stab and twist before we had the same done to us. Do you understand?"

Glass Joe is paler than before and twice as quiet, but he nods even as the terror is evident in his eyes. Von Kaiser looks at him in the eyes - soft brown ones meeting piercing green - before he resumes his tale. "But being told what to do and actually doing so are different things, Joseph. I went into combat knowing that and not much else," he runs his fingers through his dark red hair as he says this, tousling it lightly. The Frenchman looks at him and thinks that the tousled hair gives the older man an oddly boyish look - that's what he must have looked like when he was a soldier, he thinks to himself. He can almost imagine a young Von Kaiser in his uniform, his posture straight and focused; the Frenchman rather fancies for a moment or two that he can even _see_ a sleek, polished _Eisernkreuze_ gleaming from his uniform jacket. "But I was lucky in a way - I was successful the first time."

"You mean..."

"_Ja_, I did kill him," Von Kaiser answers, a hint of annoyance entering his tone, and Glass Joe remembers that the German is not a man of much patience. "what did you _expect,_ Joseph? It was a combat situation! I _had_ to, or else he would have killed me instead-"

"_Je sais_," the younger man quickly cuts in to defuse the situation. "please continue. What happened?"

But the fragile atmosphere of secrecy has already been shattered. Von Kaiser turns his head away, a small frown crossing his face, and is silent. The moment is gone and whatever secrets he may have wanted to let out will now remain secrets for a while more - cursing himself for his clumsiness, Glass Joe nevertheless carries on looking at him, hoping he will say more.

"Our superiors did not tell us anything about what it _feels_ like to hold a bayonet within a writhing human body. The only thing I could think of in that moment was how _heavy_ his body was - and then everything became clear," the older man finally says before he stands up. "but I don't blame them. There were times I thought I would never forget the screams, the agony on his face, the blood pouring out of him - and I doubt I ever will. Now excuse me, Joseph... I have to wash my hands..."

Washing hands is one activity that Von Kaiser does very often, and the Frenchman has noticed that before. Now's a good time as any to ask; he supposes that it's good that Von Kaiser isn't angry at him and he _probably_ can ask one thing more of him. If the German doesn't want to answer, he can pretend he didn't understand. "_Mais pourquoi, Monsieur_?"

He looks at the younger man, suddenly looking tired, suddenly looking as if he has lived through all of human sorrow. "I have not felt clean for years," he says, before he goes back inside the building. Glass Joe sits in a daze for about five or so minutes before he tentatively follows the other inside; there, he finds the older man standing by the sink, hot steamy water running over his hands and staring straight ahead in the mirror. He really should do something about that, the water looks hot and his palms are red from the heat - but one look at the man's expressionless face stops that chain of thought.

"_Verzeih mir_," Von Kaiser whispers, his voice echoing softly around the room. And only then does the younger man understand that it's not over for the older man, will never be completely over for him, that he will always be suffering - and that he needs to suppress his own emotions for fear of losing himself. That's why he can ignore the burning sensation of the water, because _that_ is far less painful than the _other _things he has to live with day after day. Von Kaiser's not quite done with that bayonet of his despite having left the army - now his opponent is not an enemy soldier, but himself. He'll need to fight, stab and twist and keep his emotions in check for many years to come, for fear that he should ever be consumed by them. Glass Joe stands in the doorway, gazing sadly at the older man, and Von Kaiser stands by the sink, blankly gazing ahead in a thousand-yard stare, locked in that eternal moment in his past when something inside him died forever.

As the sounds of the ticking clock and the running water merge together - somewhere back in time, a young Von Kaiser is kneeling on a cold bathroom floor, desperately praying and weeping.

* * *

**Tea - Piston Hondo**

His morning begins when he opens his eyes at exactly six thirty in a well-lit room.

Piston Hondo never needs an alarm-clock or coffee to wake him up in the mornings; he does not like laziness, so waking up comes very naturally to him. He opens his eyes, stretches lightly and gets up - after a few more stretches, he opens the window and folds up his futon neatly before stepping outside his room. Opening the curtains, he lets the sunlight in and the rest of the apartment is soon bathed in sunlight as he goes straight to the kitchen and puts the kettle on the stove. It is time for his morning tea.

It is his third day waking up in a different country. He has rented a small apartment for a month while training and attending matches; normally he prefers to commute by plane just for the match and leave for home afterwards. He tries to not stay for more than five days or a week at the _very_ maximum, but because his second match with Little Mac is coming up - and because the boy is the new Champion, this time is an exception. It will be the most important match of his life so far. Because of that sheer importance, he has decided to stay and train longer - but in return for getting to observe Little Mac's techniques more and being able to train under WVBA conditions, he has had to compromise some of his uniquely Japanese daily routine for a while as well. He can't exactly have his usual half-hour of meditation in utter silence, for one; it's far too full of noise in his apartment. But wherever he goes, noise is always present in some form, and never entirely pleasing sounds either. He can't exactly appreciate nature every day - he has a rock garden back home, but there aren't many things even remotely like that near where he is now. And the thing that pains him the most is that he can't perform his daily tea ceremony properly, because he didn't bring the necessary equipment for it - he only has the whisk, a couple of tea bowls and packets of matcha. He doesn't even have the obligatory wagashi sweets to sweeten his palate before drinking the bitter tea. But, for the time being, it'll have to do.

Piston Hondo gazes at the boiling water and thinks that it really is a shame that he can't perform the tea ceremony in its entirety; he's spent years perfecting his technique, and he takes much pride in the tea he can make with the full equipment and time. But he has neither and he has to go to work, so he settles for what can be done more quickly while still keeping to tradition. He takes the kettle off and leaves the water to cool down slightly while he goes about preparing the matcha.

He sieves a small amount of matcha into the tea bowl, pours the (not boiling but still hot) water over it, and uses a bamboo whisk to blend the mixture together. This is all done in a slow relaxed manner; the man has done it so much that he no longer even needs to consciously think about what he is doing. Everything, from the exact speed of blending to the time it takes for the mixture to gain an even consistency, comes to him without him needing to consider it. He uses this time to check the clock and see how he's doing for time; quarter to seven. Plenty of time. When the tea is fully prepared, he takes a petit-four out of box (obtained from a nearby deli) to substitute for his usual wagashi. All that's left to do is to take the whole thing through to the balcony where a table and chair is waiting for him - he sits down, gazing at the bright sky and the world coming to life beneath him.

Drinking tea is a sort of ritual for him. It's one of the only times where he can let himself truly relax, and clear his mind from any thoughts that bother him. It's different from tea he shares with people - it's nice to socialise over a cup, of course, and it's fair to say that his daily lunchtime tea break with Great Tiger is one of the highlights of his days. But he vastly prefers tea that he drinks by himself in his own solitude, because he can then lose himself in the scent, his own deep contemplations, and nothing can bother him. He takes a sip of the matcha and nods quietly in satisfaction, closing his eyes and leaning back.

He's a long way from home, away from his family and friends. He's in a different environment, a different lifestyle, a different world. And it's fair to say that he feels swept up in it far more often than he'd like to admit, in the bustling city life. Piston Hondo is a very reserved person and he's still not quite used to being here, in a country where his fights are documented and publicised with almost painful regularity; privacy and quiet isn't something he gets a lot over in the USA. Call it culture shock, but he can see that it's still going to be a while before he can truly settle in.

But at the same time, he knows that he won't lose himself so easily. Piston Hondo thinks back to his defeat in Little Mac's hands, and how quickly the boy tore through the ranks to attain the status of Champion - and inwardly feels a sense of respect towards him. The boy did it through perseverance and his own courage, and there's no reason why the Japanese man cannot. Little Mac is truly a worthy opponent, he thinks to himself, as he takes another sip of the tea. He swirls the nearly-empty bowl around a little as he carries on thinking. He has his family to think of, his honour to maintain, and to achieve the best he can he has to be diligent and self-composed. And he won't let anything take those virtues away from him.

Besides, he still has his daily ritual; it honestly isn't as if he is too far removed from his home to forget himself. The tea reminds him every day that it will be all right, that it won't be long before he's home with his family, and that he's still very much who he is. It's quarter past seven and the tea is finished; with another nod, he goes back inside and puts away the bowl. Now all he needs to do is to make himself clean and presentable and have some breakfast. He steps into the bathroom, noting that he has a lot of time left still - it's just the way he likes it. It's only more relaxation for him, and the more he can settle his mind the more efficient he will be for that day.

After a shower and a light breakfast, he dresses in a calm and slow manner; checking himself in the mirror, he smiles at himself very briefly before leaving the apartment. A long day lies ahead, and he's completed his ritual, leaving only one more small thing to be done as part of his preparations for the day. So he arrives at the station at eight o'clock and outruns a train and he feels so very much better indeed.

* * *

**Undeterred - Super Macho Man**

"Damn," he mutters through clenched teeth as he sits in the changing rooms, flipping the pages of the newspaper with a feverish intensity. "_damn_. Oh Christ. _Goddamn_."

He flings that newspaper away and glances at another one (the one on top of an entire newspaper stack, nonetheless), only to let out another exclamation of disgust and utter dismay; acting almost like a man possessed, he blindly tosses down newspaper after newspaper, destroying the stack entirely and seeing the same thing on every headline. He finally stands up and throws down the final set of papers on the ground, letting out a wordless yell of utter frustration; Soda Popinski and Bear Hugger, who have been occupying the same room (and watching the scene unfold with increasing discomfort), stare at him in both alarm and confusion.

"'Scuse me," Super Macho Man says (half to himself), his words coming out in a bare whisper. He's going to lose it at any second, he can feel it coming - and in a moment of genuine consideration for the two boxers, he hurtles out the door of the changing rooms and across the corridor, running towards one of the training rooms that he knows is deserted this afternoon.

He makes the trip successfully, quickly slams the door shut, and starts screaming and pummelling a punching bag. Little Mac's done it again.

He honestly hasn't expected this one. Little Mac's been offered numerous contracts from various agents who want to cash into his success; it's obviously not enough for the brat to take away _his_ fangirls, the white-haired man thinks furiously as he keeps up his assault on the bag. That was insulting enough, losing his fangirls to a boy a full decade younger he is. Little Mac's not even old enough to really enjoy their company anyway, judging from his disturbed reactions whenever they try to barge into the WVBA to squeal over him. But from what Super Macho Man read, the agents who offered Little Mac their contracts are the same ones who've been with him since the beginning of his career. They obviously haven't bothered to tell him that he's being dropped - and the icing on the cake is that nearly _all_ the contractors did the exact same thing and jumped ship to Little Mac, enough of them taking action to end up in the headlines. That is truly the final straw for the man and he carries on yelling, letting out his fury on the (now heavily battered) punching bag and wishing with all his might that he was beating the daylights out of the boy instead.

His stamina eventually loses out to his fury; he collapses on the floor and lies back, actually feeling incredibly disoriented and somewhat sick from the sheer force of his anger and yet too tired to move. As he does so his fingers brush the now-useless punching bag, and he manages to gaze down in astonishment at his bleeding knuckles. He just destroyed a perfectly good punching bag with fists alone and didn't even realise that he hadn't put his gloves on - he would have, he thinks to himself somewhat bemusedly, because he'd been in the process of putting on hand wraps when he'd been checking through these newspapers. Said wraps are still hanging onto his hands, but only barely; they couldn't have protected his hands very well, he never finished putting them on properly. Now that he's calmer and thinking more rationally, Super Macho Man begins to feel the little finger on his right hand aching - he might have fractured it, it's a common but easily preventable injury. The fact that he's sunk so low only really hits him then, and when it does, only a small laugh of utter disbelief escapes him.

Never mind the potential injury; the doctor at the WVBA can patch him up in minutes. Never mind the punching bag; there are hundreds more in the facility. Little Mac, however, cannot be dismissed so lightly. It's kind of incredible and sort of _amusing_, really, that a little scrap barely five feet seven tall has come this far and reduced so many boxers into shadows of their former selves. And he's singlehandedly proved to them all that the further up one is, the further down one has to inevitably fall - and how! Super Macho Man used to be second from the top of the ranks in the WVBA, losing out only to Sandman, but then the boy came along and rendered everything he'd ever done meaningless. Everyone is an equal challenger to Little Mac now - Glass Joe, Bald Bull, Sandman, _everyone_. Some boxers have already been felled twice, and sooner of later, the white-haired man is expected to join the ones who failed yet again. But considering all that has happened to the man, his expected second failure might as well have already happened many times over. He was always so consistently high up that being thrown down to a lesser place is enough punishment for his entire career.

So why he's even trying, he has absolutely no idea, but he can't quit now. In a moment he's going to get up, dispose of the useless bag in the trash, and get himself patched up. He probably should track down Soda Popinski and Bear Hugger and say sorry to them too, and maybe clean up all the newspapers from the changing room before heading back home. It's barely lunchtime, but he genuinely can't stand to be in the WVBA any longer. He can train at home as easily as anything. And in a few weeks' time, his rematch with the new champion will come and he won't be able to back out. But Super Macho Man has no intention to back out at all; rather, he welcomes it with what can only really be described as half insanity. Victory or no victory, he's dying to wipe off the grin from Little Mac's face, even just for a little while, and _nothing _is going to stop him.

If he pulls a win off successfully, it will be the true high point of his career; he'll get the belt of the Champion straight away and get his own back at the boy. It doesn't even matter if he can't hold onto it afterwards, as long as he loses it to someone who isn't Little Mac. If he fails, then he'll never be able to make a real comeback and will have to settle grudgingly for whatever place is left over instead - but it'll give him peace of mind, because at least by then he'd know where he really stands. Whatever happens, he knows that he can't go back to being who he was before.

_Godspeed_, he thinks, and manages a half-smile. And he's not sure who that remark is addressed to, Little Mac or himself, and his smile becomes even more painful at the thought.


	8. From Visions to Xenophobia

**Author's Note:** Updates on March didn't happen, as predicted. Italy was EXHAUSTING. My god. x.x We must have walked about a hundred miles in the one full week we were away. It was bad enough that my feet actually bled. But went to Vesuvius and all, Italy is very beautiful. And I've pretty much recovered now, didn't get any jetlag or anything! I make trips to Korea every now and then, and England-Italy is a lot less exhausting than England-Korea as a whole, I guess. But that aside, notes for the previous update:

**Suppress** - I think this is one of the finer drabbles in the series, although I daresay that it's because of the sheer amount of dialogue. It's more of a oneshot than anything else. I'm really proud of this one mainly because I believe that this is the finest, and perhaps the most seductive incarnation of Von Kaiser I've ever written. The above description might sound really off considering the amount of horrible violence detailed in it, but there's something about the image of the man in uniform, being eleven years younger than the time of the games and smoking a cigarette that I love. This gives more insight into his PTSD as well. Although Glass Joe's perception of Kaiser is... well, kinda slashy, that wasn't intentional - it's admiration, honest! x.x Damn, though. The man really needs a hug.

**Tea -** This was an interesting little drabble. Piston Hondo sure took his sweet time to be written here, dang. xD This resonates with me in a personal level too; I guess it's the theme of feeling lost and bewildered in a foreign country and yet knowing it will be okay that does it. Matcha is a type of green tea and wagashi are confectionery served before drinking any sort of bitter tea to sweeten the palate beforehand, just in case you didn't know. I like to think of Piston Hondo as a calm and very focused man, and I've slipped in a hint of Great Tiger and Piston Hondo being friends - I plan to expand that in the future if possible. As for the ending - you know he totally would. (snrrrk)

**Undeterred** - This is a spiritual sequel to 'Stories', which can be found in Written in Fine Print. Super Macho Man has reached rock bottom here. It's really based off his Title Defense cutscene where he's shown losing girls and agents to Mac and ends up beating a punching bag with the boy's picture taped on it - call it a dramatic retelling. He's always been so far above everyone else, and according to 'Stories' never really had much of a failure to learn from, so he's taking it extremely hard. It may be a wee bit too dark, I think, but overall a fairly good picture of his mental state.

This is the penultimate update for the Alphabet series, after which I can get back to Written in Fine Print and other various projectbunnies I have lying around. It's getting harder for me to write nowadays, there is SO MUCH going on. T-T This is my most important year, because exams this year determine me going to university. So please forgive me on my slow update times... Drabbles here are for V-X, starring everybody, the holograms Little Mac uses in Practice Mode, Glass Joe and Bear Hugger. Glass Joe and Bear Hugger share the same one, as odd as that sounds, but that's just friendship. 'Visions' has one mention of slash in it but nothing at all tangible happens.

Chaos Wielder/ Man, funny wasn't exactly the angle I was going for in 'Suppress' with Glass Joe. xD However you do have a point - his reactions are probably the only thing keeping that particular drabble being more brutal than it already is. Also Piston Hondo is someone I'm thinking of expanding more - he might seem like a bit of a flat character compared to... well, everybody else, but that might be because he's from a vastly different culture and one that's inevitably a lot more reserved. It'd be interesting, because culture and mannerisms-wise, I identify surprisingly closely to his character (I'm Korean).

Read on. (Please don't kill me for 'X', I not be trolling. T w T I'll make up for it later.)

* * *

**Visions - The Hologram Boxers**

The training room with the holograms was by far the most requested room in the WVBA building.

It didn't look like much when the lights were on, admittedly - it was simply a bare room with steel walls and darkened blinds, and a large platform with the exact dimensions of a boxing ring set up in the middle. Only when all the lights (except for two dim bulbs high up) went off could the room serve its true purpose. The room had been devised with the goal to let every boxer in the Association spar with each other, regardless of rank within any Circuit and without fear of being severely injured or mercilessly tormented.

Every session in the room lasted exactly sixteen minutes - it was enough to simulate one match that lasted three rounds. The holograms went through their set moves for three minutes, and walked off to take a break for one minute; that was repeated three times, and after the hologram of the Referee announced the results, they faded away to nothing. Of course they could be knocked down well before that, in which case, the simulation would simply reset itself until the time was up. It was especially popular with boxers who were new to the scene and were yet unsure how things were in the place, but in general all the boxers in the WVBA were happy to use the room (the sole exception was Great Tiger, who had long since gained the ability to duplicate himself into the famed Mirage Dance and had much less need to rely on holograms - he merely commented that the training room 'had taken its time to arrive' when it was unveiled).

They had limitations, of course - holograms were by definition merely visible and insubstantial, so it was impossible to simulate the feeling of punching a real human being. The simulated boxers would go through the motions of dodging or reeling back from a punch, but it wasn't at all uncommon for the whole thing to be thrown off sync for a few seconds, where some bizarre glitches could be observed (Disco Kid had experienced one when he saw his punch go right through the head of a hologram Bald Bull, the simulation having remained utterly still). Everyone was limited to two sessions a week in the room, and for every session, they had to make careful selections, because it was impossible to switch out holograms once the twelve minutes began. Finally, all the holograms (while being quite true to life) were a vivid shade of blue and had blank eyes, which didn't help matters for some who found the uncanny look they possessed unnerving.

But everyone ignored these limitations. In fact, many even embraced the differences, because a great deal of the boxers didn't use the room exclusively for training anyway. When it had been announced that the room allowed close interaction between every single boxer in the Association, that statement had been taken at face value by a surprising number of boxers; now most people used their sessions to bring up the hologram of the person most on their mind and making their feelings clear to those illusionary boxers. It was justified in the sense that many of the boxers understood too well that some of the feelings they harboured for others could not be voiced in real life without breaking the peace of the WVBA - but sometimes, things just needed to be said in some way or another, even if it changed nothing. So even though the boxers all believed that they were the only ones to do such a thing within the room, there were in fact many sessions that went without a single punch thrown from the part of the boxers, the men instead sitting down at a corner, watching the holograms and talking to them as if they were real.

"I hate you," snarled by a furious Aran Ryan to a hologram of Little Mac.

For Don Flamenco, simple silence as he watched his cockier, more cheerful past self.

Soda Popinski being half overjoyed and half tormented by the sight of himself drinking soda while he was abstaining in preparation for further training.

A kiss that hung in the air, and an uncharacteristically soft and quiet "_Ich liebe dich_..." murmured to an illusionary Glass Joe.

An equally soft and nervous "_Je t'aime_," whispered to a just-as-unreal Von Kaiser, accompanied by an attempt to embrace him that failed.

It simply didn't matter what anyone said in this room. The place was soundproofed anyway to give the maximum effect of actually being in a match, so there was no one to hear. It was darkened so that the holograms were visible (but not too dark, otherwise the holograms could not work), so there was nothing between the boxer in question and their confrontation with the vision of another. It was quiet save for their breathing and the occasional sounds the holograms made, so there was nothing to distract them, either. Because the room was so heavily visited and sought after regardless of purpose, the officials were happy as well. So really, nobody lost out.

Thus when the boxers left, whatever secrets they let out belonged only to the rapidly fading holograms and the silent room itself; they would never be uttered to anyone else, free for the same men to state them over and over every time they came in, engraving them onto air.

The training room with the holograms was by far the most requested room in the WVBA building.

Not much training really got done there.

* * *

**Winter - Glass Joe**

He leaned back against the bench and sighed; it misted against the cold air, and he wearily opened his eyes, blankly staring into the sky. Everything was covered in snow from what he could see. Glass Joe wondered why he had even ventured outside of the medical ward in the first place when it was clearly doing him no good - he was shivering and also in no condition to endure the cold for long - but made no attempts to get back inside the WVBA building. He was too tired to make the return effort, for one thing, and he supposed that being out in the cold would help him to forget about the pain and worries. A dull ache ran through his body as if in response, and he let out a small groan, closing his eyes and burying his bandaged head in his hands. Everything was utterly silent to him; that day he was deprived of his hearing by bandages covering his forehead and ears, which wasn't helping him. It was far too quiet for him to feel any sort of comfort.

What the man didn't know, however, was that his disappearance from the building hadn't gone unnoticed. Bear Hugger peeked out from the entrance, frowning lightly and adjusting his cap; he had been a boxer there for only a month now, still not quite rid of his rookie status, and he had been sent to search for the Frenchman in the cold outside because of that. But he didn't mind - he was a good-natured man anyway, and besides he found himself worrying about the older boxer. Glass Joe hadn't really talked to him during the past month, but they nodded at each other politely in the corridors every day, and once the Frenchman had given him a quick patching up after a match that hadn't gone well. From that Bear Hugger had gathered that Glass Joe was a caring and gentle person, which provided enough reason for the lumberjack to like him. He had noticed that the older man had often looked lonely, and had figured that he probably needed a good friend or two.

Glass Joe hadn't gone very far at all; he had taken only a few steps outside the entrance when he spotted the man sitting on a bench across the road. He briefly considered calling out to the older man, relieved that the search would be a quick one; but then it occurred to him that Glass Joe did not speak fluent English. The lumberjack himself only knew some French from street banter and his schooldays. The younger man bit his lip lightly, looking anxiously at Glass Joe (whose back was turned to him), realising that his task was going to be harder than he'd thought. But he had to try anyway. It was what he'd come for, after all. Crossing the road, he cautiously approached the bench, stopping about ten paces away.

"_Monsieur Joe_?" he called, thinking that the older man would respond to his name if nothing else; there was no response, so he tried again in a slightly louder tone. "_Monsieur_!"

There was still no reply. It was only then the younger man noticed the bandages around his head and the fact that the Frenchman wore no jacket or coat to shield him from the snow; indeed, nothing thicker than a turtleneck sweater. Glass Joe was utterly cut off from the world at this point, he noted with dismay - most men in his situation might have given up and retreated to ask for more help at that point, but nevertheless he decided that he couldn't leave the older man be.

Throughout this time Glass Joe had been sitting with his eyes closed, letting the cold weather numb his senses. But soon he sensed a presence behind him, and before he could even open his eyes, he felt a coat being draped around his shoulders. Startled, he looked up to see Bear Hugger standing behind him (sans coat) with a concerned expression.

"_Merci_," he managed to whisper, clutching at the coat lightly - he didn't quite know what _else _to do or say - but nevertheless, he carried on looking at the taller man, no closer to understanding. "_mais... pourquoi_-"

"It will be a harsh winter," the lumberjack said quietly, directed more to himself than to the other. "you need it. _Oui_."

Glass Joe tilted his head slightly, the other's words sounding far too faint for him to make out - it then crossed his mind that Bear Hugger was a Canadian, and he dared to hope just for a moment. "_Francophone_?"

"_Non_," the Canadian said regretfully, shaking his head. "Anglophone."

He still didn't hear, but from the negative reaction Glass Joe understood that he wasn't dealing with a French speaker. Dejected, he turned his head and closed his eyes again as the lumberjack sat down next to him. Bear Hugger himself made no more attempts to speak, pondering over what to do next. He thought that he probably should get the older man back to the building, they could just barely communicate by gestures; but Glass Joe was in no condition to move around or speak much from what he could see. Bear Hugger had to acknowledge that it was probably too hard a task for him, and decided to leave the older man for a bit to get more help; and yet he found himself hesitating. He felt that he had to comfort the older man at least before leaving. The Canadian didn't trust his French pronunciation enough to offer a reassuring talk - he doubted that talking itself would be of much help anyway, with the Frenchman in his current state, but he had other means.

He gestured for the other to hold up his hand. Confused, Glass Joe nevertheless complied; he then began to slowly trace the letters of the phrase he wanted to communicate on the other's palm, again gesturing for the other to look. The older man sat uncomprehending for a few seconds, but eventually did so. "_T_," he mouthed silently to himself as the letters were traced on his palm, frowning lightly in concentration. "_o-u_-"

_-T-i-r-a-b-i-e-n-_

_Tout ira bien. _Glass Joe sat there in shock as the words fell into place and full understanding dawned on him.

The Canadian watched anxiously, wondering if he had done something wrong; three awkward minutes passed like that, with the older man still staring at his hand and the lumberjack sitting in uncomfortable silence, before the latter noticed a change and leant over. Glass Joe was _crying_, Bear Hugger realised with alarm - his tears were dripping onto his still-open palm, and he was sitting there with his eyes closed and with such a tormented look that the younger man instantly felt pity welling up inside him. Despite being hesitant to give him a hug in case Glass Joe found it uncomfortable, he had the presence of mind to reach over and give him a light squeeze on the hand to convey that it was all right, that everything would turn out well, and that he understood. Glass Joe responded by wiping his eyes and offering an exhausted, but thankful smile.

"Gettin' cold," Bear Hugger said quietly, and stood up; the Frenchman followed suit, his hand still being grasped in the other's. The lumberjack looked up and frowned slightly at the snowflakes beginning to fall from the sky - it was probably best that they went back to the WVBA now, if only to avoid the plummeting temperatures that were sure to follow. The other boxers were probably fretting over their absence as well. He turned around, giving the other's hand an encouraging tug. "come on, _Monsieur_. Let's get you back."

And this time, despite the younger man's words sounding like a faint echo, Glass Joe understood perfectly. He adjusted the coat Bear Hugger had given him around his shoulders and followed suit, leaving the bench behind to be covered in snow, feeling ever so slightly happier than before - and he was grateful to the younger man for it.

* * *

**Xenophobia - **

Always a problem in the WVBA.


	9. From Youth to Xerostomia

**Author's Note:** This is the final chapter of The Alphabet of WVBA. Nine months it was running, could have finished a lot sooner... this was the sole project that kept me running for my most difficult college year so far and I'm bidding it goodbye. It was meant to be done in May but I was very busy that month and until two days ago I was busy with my final exams as well; so as it happens, I'm posting this on my birthday. I am now eighteen years as of June 18 2011, and the themes discussed in this drabble have a lot to do with growing up and progressing in life. This will have the longest set of Author's Notes yet, for the previous drabbles and this particular set.

**Visions -** I wonder if anyone paid much mind to the hologram boxers that you can see in Practice mode, which you access in Exhibition just before fighting a boxer. Chances are, if you're good or don't mind your record having a few losses overall, you will never need to see them - but I made plenty use of them when I played the game first time. They really do help. This drabble stems from the idea that there is a special room set aside for virtual training like this in the WVBA, and that despite the potential uncanny valley, it's the closest some boxers will ever get to others. And what if they want to express their feelings but can't in fear of breaking the harmony? It might act as an outlet for their feelings, because it's safe and secrecy is guaranteed. Caters for everybody. This is one drabble that breaks the no pairings rule, as you may have observed. Now I'm just going to wait for hologram!kinks to emerge in this fandom. Also noted on DA for being rather creepy.

**Winter -** The last Glass Joe drabble. He's featured a lot in this series! And this is... well, pretty depressing. More than 'Reflection', I think, despite the fact that both end somewhat happily. While the problem is with Joe, I think it's really a lot more about Bear Hugger. They're both a lot younger than they are in the games in this drabble - surprisingly, winter was not my first thought in creating this one. It was the Francophone/Anglophone divide in Canada that drove this one. Nevermind that Canadian French isn't always the same as French spoken in France. xD I always mention that Glass Joe's well liked within the WVBA, but I don't provide enough proof of this - so far I've shown his interaction with Don, Kaiser, and Mac. (Aran is antagonising, so he doesn't count interaction-wise.) This is one example with Bear Hugger. I think they could be good friends, personally. They're at a vaguely similar age range, Bear Hugger's quite jolly as it is, and they're both familiar with French even if the latter doesn't quite speak it. Interesting exploration for me but it was also a pain in the ass to write for some reason.

**Xenophobia -** HAHAHAHAHAHA

The drabbles here are for Y-X ('Xenophobia' isn't a _real_ drabble, so I've made up for the last one). Doc Louis makes a very overdue appearance in the first one; Von Kaiser's final drabble is here, and the very last one features everybody although the focus is on Little Mac. The stories here are a lot longer than the average 'drabble' I put on here; they probably qualify as oneshots or small ficlets, not drabbles. I'm not sure why this happened; part of the reason at least was that I was going to make up for the not-a-drabble 'Xenophobia' with a double-length story, but some way or another they've all become quite long. 'Zoetic' may be triggering through some use of PTSD, but it shouldn't be too bad; I broke the no couples rule again and this time there are pretty visible hints, but it's not really done for romantic effect.

Enjoy the final chapter.

* * *

**Youth - Doc Louis**

Doc Louis felt certain that the champion's belt was not the only reason he was training Little Mac.

It would have been a lie to say that the boy being the champion wasn't the priority, however; the older man knew (all too well) how incredible it felt to hold that belt up and hear the crowd's roar wash over the entire stadium. He had once been a long-running champion himself, and a fairly glorious one at that, seeing as he had technically never been defeated during his reign - he'd _retired_ and passed on the belt to the second best boxer in the Association. Far better than being humiliated on the ring, he had thought back then, and he still felt certain that he had done the right thing by leaving on a calm, dignified note. But recently, his views had been challenged by the little scrap of a boy that he'd been training.

"Once you get the Champion's belt, Mac," he had said - careful to say 'once' instead of 'if' to subconsciously guarantee the boy's triumph - whilst they were taking a break from their daily bike runs. "you're expected to defend your title against everyone all over again. And I do mean all the boxers you've fought in the three Circuits; that roster includes Sandman too, because you'd have beaten him. If you lose against anyone during title defense, you can win your belt back by fighting the boxer who took it off you. No need to work your way back up again, just challenge the guy and take it back - because they didn't climb the ranks as you did, their claim to the belt is not fully valid unless resigned or undefeated for a set length of time. But losing the belt still leaves black marks on your record."

"What happens then?" Mac had asked; the boy very seldom spoke, the older man had found, which made the rare times he said anything quite precious.

"If you get past title defense? If you're still the champ after that, then you remain with the belt - and wait for a new challenger to take you on. Until then you'll be met with exhibition matches from the other boxers in the Circuits, and from other Associations as well. You're the first new challenger Sandman has taken on in two years, if that gives you an idea of how long you might need to wait. Lose to a new challenger, and the belt is officially his and you'll be the one trying to take it off him again. If you lose your belt during exhibition matches with the guys you've fought before, their claim to the championship is loose like it was in title defense, but you won't have quite the protection you had back then. Keep losing for too long, and they'll want to promote someone else."

"It seems too lax for me," the boy had said quietly, looking out to the horizon and to the Statue of Liberty itself. "wouldn't it be better to set limits on how many times you can lose? That way the champion roster would change every now and then instead of going on for however long..."

Doc Louis had shook his head. "That would probably mean that there is no constant champion at any time, Mac. We can't have the belt just drifting everywhere. And besides, letting the champion hold out for as long as he can has always been the way the WVBA has done things... it shows his willpower and skill. I mean, what if you had a fluke chain of unfortunate losses that don't tie to your skills but rather because of things you can't help? That can't be good."

The boy had thought about this and nodded, accepting this. "But it can't be easy on the champions either," he had said, for the final time that day before they went back to their rather one-sided training sessions. "if they somehow have to keep fighting even if they aren't quite in the shape they used to be. Getting too old or too tired, that's no one's fault. That kind of fade-out seems rather... I don't know, rather sad. I think it'd be pretty hard to watch that happening, wouldn't you agree? If I ever become the champion... I think I'll set my limits and retire when that limit is reached. Be proud. Go out with a bang, if you know what I mean."

The strange thing about the entire affair was that Doc Louis could actually see what Little Mac was getting at. He'd even at one point wondered why he'd not chosen to do something similar in the past.

And that led to the other reasons as to why he'd accepted the young boy as a student. Little Mac was very different yet not dissimilar to him; he had the same passion, the incredible talent for boxing (Doc Louis still thought fondly of his trainer back in the good old days, bless him, who used to say the same things about him as he now did to Little Mac) and the ability to carry on the Star Punch. None of the man's previous students had understood that concept - they could uppercut just fine, but didn't seem to quite know what he'd meant by 'stars' and 'gaps in the technique'. Little Mac had gotten it straight away, much to his surprise. He had been cautious since then, of course; because the boy was so talented, it would have been far too easy to get carried away with the training, far too easy to fill the boy's head with too much ambition. But he had done well so far and he was very proud of it.

Doc Louis wasn't young anymore, he was well into his fifties now; and even though he could still hold his own against some of the World Circuit boxers, there was no longer much hope of him going anywhere near the Champion's rank. And he didn't really _want_ to, either; once had been quite enough in real life. But he saw himself in Little Mac, enough to want to help the boy reach for the highest honour a boxer could hope to achieve, and by proxy, Little Mac's triumph would be his own. Perhaps it was a very roundabout way of relieving his own youth, the man had wryly observed to himself, but it would be infinitely more satisfying in the end, watching him achieve what Doc Louis himself had achieved so many years ago, and perhaps go on to do even greater things. He could hardly wait to see what would come of his efforts, and had to put in much more effort to hide this, in preparation for the still-present possibility that things might not go as well as expected.

Little did Doc Louis know that the boy (although soon he would no longer be a 'boy' but a young man) would succeed more spectacularly than he could ever imagine; he would breeze through title defense and enjoy the most incredible amount of publicity and success. And little did he know that Little Mac would go on to take on their past discussion seriously and impose limits on how many times he could afford to lose; eventually Doc Louis would give in to the other's insistent demands, and it would turn out to be the most heartbreaking and yet most rewarding decision the two of them would ever make together.

But none of this mattered right now. Little Mac was good to go, and so was he, and that was what was important.

* * *

**Zoetic - Von Kaiser**

"_Gott_," Von Kaiser murmured weakly as he supported himself; but he pressed on, although it was hurting too much to walk. He could barely see - it hurt to use his damaged eyes, but he was feeling around his surroundings weakly and supporting his weight on a makeshift cane, and that was about enough to let him go on. He couldn't have stayed any longer in the infirmary, he simply couldn't sleep nor rest without being reminded of that explosion, and with that reminder came the devastating realisation that it had all been his fault.

In all his arrogance as an officer, he had underestimated the situation he and his men were in, despite the warnings from his superiors to proceed with caution. He alone had brought upon the fatal consequences; while marching through the dense forest, he had veered his men into a danger zone, the ill-fated trek cut short when two of the soldiers each stepped on a mine. And now he had torn scars all over his legs and torso to show for his foolishness; he had taken damage from the shrapnel and had been unfortunate enough to look down at the ground as an explosion took place, the flash rendering him near blind. Von Kaiser had let his men down - the two soldiers were killed in the resulting blast, five more (including him) injured, and he was sure he'd lost the trust of every single one who had survived. The people who had patched him up had told him that he had been very lucky to have not lost any limbs himself - and that it was nothing short of miraculous that most of the men had come out _alive _after venturing into a minefield. This was of no consolation to Von Kaiser; he could barely walk, and he could only see faint shapes and lights. He eventually stopped at a forest clearing and collapsed with a near sob, aware he had not gone as far as he had wanted; but his eyes were watering far too much even under the dark cloth covering them, and his legs shook so much that he could no longer go on.

All he wanted to do was to lie there with his blinded eyes closed and his palms facing upwards and be utterly empty.

The night was quiet; he could hear absolutely nothing, the crickets and other nocturnal creatures having long since deserted the clearing. He was sure that there was a full moon up above, but he could not see it; his tears were overflowing now, soaking into the dark cloth and running down his face, although he didn't know if that was because he had simply strained his eyes or because he was feeling some emotion he could not comprehend. He clenched his eyes shut; slowly, the flow of tears stopped and the burning sensation behind his eyes faded as the minutes passed. A light breeze blew over his form, rustling his clothes, tickling his face - he grimaced in response and turned his head to one side. It was quite a while before he even felt that he could afford to open his eyes once more, and he did so ever so slowly to avoid hurting them any more. The blindfold was thick; he could not make out his surroundings, only the vague hint of moonlight, but at least his eyes no longer stung. He let himself adjust to the brightness, and what seemed like hours (it could not have been more than a few minutes, he noted later on) passed before he could support himself and sit up. Clumsily, he felt for the blindfold, fumbling with a considerable lack of care before he managed to untie it - now that he could think more clearly, he had realised that he could not make his way back nor grasp his bearings if he didn't know where he was. Straining his eyes even more seemed a fair enough risk to take, for he knew he couldn't be far away from where he had started.

What greeted his sight, however, was not what he had expected. Von Kaiser was surprised at how much he could actually see without straining his eyes; while everything seemed blurry, he could make out the general landscape and some individual shapes that he recognised as trees and bushes. And amongst those shapes, not more than five steps from him, stood a tall figure - one wearing _his _officer's uniform, _his_ cap, even the tag that bore _his_ name and smiled with the same arrogant tilt of the head.

"I've gone mad," he murmured; as much as he didn't want to admit it, he _was _staring at a vision of himself, one of how he had looked not a week before his predicament.

"That may be so," the vision told him, looking quite calm. "but you're in trouble."

_How much more trouble could I possibly be in_, he wanted to ask, but thought better of it. He was raving, a slightly more rational part of his mind told him, and it was best to just pretend that he wasn't seeing any of this. He closed his eyes again with a groan, rubbing his temples, desperately wishing that it was all a trick of his mind and nothing more. "Leave," he managed to whisper hoarsely through the pain. No reply came, but he could sense that the vision was still there; and sooner or later Von Kaiser would have gone mad, had he not heard voices of other men calling him, not so far away from where he was. Startled, he tried to stand up and look around, but his legs proved far too shaky to do so. He was rapidly losing strength from being out in the cold, but if he could say something, loud enough for them to hear...

"Look at you," the vision sneered, still standing in front of him. "you're pathetic. It's all over for you now, so you might as well stay here," it continued on carelessly. "after everything you've done, you can't still be thinking that you deserve a place in this world, _ja_? You'd die quietly here if you had any decency left."

Von Kaiser very nearly listened; he felt that it certainly did have a point. He could stay silent until they left - they would not be able to find him in the dark if he didn't reply, and it would not be long before he perished due to exposure. But something inside him screamed that he wanted to live, that he wanted another chance, and even if he was going to die soon he didn't want to die _here_.

"_Hilfe_," he whispered at first; but by sheer will, he stretched out blindly towards the voices with one hand. "_hilfe, bitte_!"

Everything suddenly went silent for a few seconds; it felt eternal to Von Kaiser, who waited in agony for a response. And then two things happened at once: the voices grew much more louder and urgent, calling back to each other for aid, footsteps growing much more closer as they started tracking his voice. The vision standing in front of him also flickered violently, as if his cry for help had wounded it somehow; it let out a sharp hiss in protest, glowering at him as its form began to grow dim. "Fool!" it sneered even as it faded away, "oh, you'll _live_ all right, but don't say I never warned you..."

He did not care. His head throbbed, but he managed to yell out once more (wordless this time and weaker, but still clearly audible), and he thought he heard a voice next to him just before he began to lose consciousness. "- Herr von Kaiser-"

"- Kaiser - mon -"

"-_Monsieur_!"

The man's eyes flew open at this, and he shot up from his bed with a barely restrained cry; he looked around wildly, his eyes wide with fear before he realized that he was in his bedroom, with a worried-looking Glass Joe sitting up beside him. Neither of them were wearing much clothing. "Monsieur... are you all right? You were talking in your sleep!"

"_Ja_," Von Kaiser whispered as he fell back loosely against the head of the bed, raising a shaky hand to his forehead; his breathing was still rapid and uneven. "I'm fine... the military... I..."

The Frenchman's expression instantly changed from anxiety to one of understanding and sympathy. He said nothing to counter or affirm what few words Von Kaiser said, but instead moved close to hold the German in his arms, discovering (to add to his worry) that the older man did not react to this. Glass Joe eased them both back down into a lying position on the bed; he'd been sleeping in Von Kaiser's arms before, but feeling the need to comfort him, he moved up slightly to let the older man's head lie on his chest. He knew that he could have consoled Von Kaiser in many different ways, telling him that the past was all over, that it was okay, that he was loved - but what use was mere _talk _to a man who'd actually been through those horrors? Glass Joe knew too well that it wouldn't work - he'd tried, and he understood as clearly as anything as a result of his attempts that he could not ease the other's suffering with words. They'd both had their difficult periods in life, of course, but the Frenchman simply hadn't been through the same things Von Kaiser had. So he just held the older man in his arms, hoping that the other would not find this a humiliating or otherwise profoundly embarrassing experience.

Much to his relief, the German made no protests - he stopped shivering within minutes of being held. In a rare moment of dependency he even closed his eyes and snuggled deeper into the other's chest; he looked so frightened and helpless that Glass Joe briefly forgot that the man was an ex-soldier and a fiery-tempered boxer. Pulling up the covers, the Frenchman gently stroked Von Kaiser's back, fingers skimming over his bare skin and the various scars there, soothing him in the most direct way he could. This had an effect immediately; the older man relaxed, exhaling slowly, leaning further into the embrace. Lying against soft human skin, feeling the pleasant warmth, making intimate contact in this way - this was the ultimate reassurance that the German could ever ask for and he was glad that the younger man understood him. He looked up to the other's face after a while and was greeted with a gentle kiss on his lips, along with a soothing murmur.

And yet amongst the calming silence, Von Kaiser could not help but feel a lingering sense of dread. Even though he had most definitely done the right thing back then, years ago - even though he had left his crueler, darker past behind - he was tormented with the vague sense that maybe, just _maybe_, he had made the wrong choice. There was no doubt that he was leading a more fulfilling life now; he was a boxer and could relish the one sport he had loved all his life without compromising much else. He had close friends and a partner who loved him for what he was. Von Kaiser couldn't complain about the life he was leading - but this certainly hadn't been the first time that he'd felt that he hadn't begged for forgiveness quite enough, and that he'd have preferred to die alone in that forest than suffer through his otherwise good life. Von Kaiser had held on well so far, but he had seen too much, he had known far too much, and at times like these he couldn't help thinking that he had been too poisoned from his experiences to continue clinging to life.

He had chosen to be alive, atone for his sins, and give himself a second chance to put things right. But Von Kaiser was only sure of his choice about seventy percent of the time. Whenever he wavered, he was tormented mercilessly by his memories - and he could never relate to anyone on this, because no one else he knew had been through the same things. It was slowly breaking him, and it wasn't a matter of _if_ he was going to eventually shatter into pieces - it was a matter of _how_ and _when_ and _where_.

"I want to _live_," he whispered, feeling (just for a second) tears threatening to fall from behind closed eyes.

"I know," Glass Joe murmured in his ear, gently stroking his skin. "I understand."

But he didn't, he couldn't, and that was the worst of all.

* * *

**Xerostomia - Little Mac**

"Just a hiatus, that's all," he said, forcing a smile. "just until I can finish my studies."

'Hiatus' was the word he used, but the Referee could see that he did not mean it that way; it was a full-on retirement, like any boxer who had fought enough would eventually declare, and the chances of him coming back were slim to say the least. Little Mac, after all, had only just turned eighteen - he needed to go to college and finish his education before he could even feasibly carry on with boxing. He sat there in silence, looking down at the documents, knowing that it was best to let the young man go - he had single-handedly improved the quality of boxers in the place, he had re-invigorated the WVBA with new, passionate and talented boxers who were now training for places in the Circuits, and he had kept his Champion belt for most of his (short but incredible) career. But good things never lasted, it seemed - it had barely been a year since he had entered the Association, and the Referee was loath to see him leave so soon.

"I do understand," he replied, glancing at the young man and back down to the documents in front of him. One signature from the Referee would make Little Mac's retirement official, and the man was only too aware of this power. He had seen so many boxers leave in the past years, but this was one of the rare times when he felt genuinely uncomfortable letting someone go. He tidied the small stack of documents and looked again at Little Mac, folding his hands in front of him. "have you made the other boxers aware of this?"

"I have."

He smiled. "Good. I must thank you for that; you are one of the best boxers the Association has had in years, and I do believe that we will all miss you when you leave," as he spoke, he reached out for a pen and put his signature on the front of the document. No turning back now, he thought to himself, telling himself that it was only routine. "when are you planning to collect your belongings?"

"Right about now, I was thinking."

"That will be fine," the Referee stood up, and offered a hand to the youth. The handshake was accepted in a firm and very official manner indeed. "I wish you the best of luck for the future."

Little Mac smiled and nodded, turning to the door, determined not to show any of his sadness over retiring. He knew the older man had done him a similar favour by making the entire thing easier on the youth; the Referee had made no further fuss about the situation, and had simply accepted his decision as it was, saving him a lot of grief and regret. That had been far more courtesy than what he had initially received from the other boxers, though he did have to admit that none of it had really been their fault.

As he walked down the corridors, seeing the rooms and lockers he had little chance of ever seeing again, he let himself think - not of the happier times he'd had in the WVBA, he saved _those_ up to dwell on later to cheer himself up - and relieved the events of the past week or so when he had announced to everyone that he was leaving the Association, perhaps for good. After the initial stunned silence, the boxers asked him _why_ - he'd had no reason to retire so early, he had only ever lost three times and he'd managed to get his belt back twice straight away after those defeats. _You didn't have to do this_ had been the sole thought in every boxer's mind, Little Mac was sure. He'd been avoiding the changing rooms and the reception during the past few days, too afraid that he might be judged as weak, too nervous of the possibility that he had let everyone down as the pride of the Association.

After all, he had only recently become an adult, and growing up was hard.

But he owed them a farewell at least; being with the boxers had taught him ever so much and he wanted to show them his gratitude, even if he was now far too short of time to voice it properly. Just the thought of it made his mouth dry; he was still incredibly nervous of the thought, but tried ever so hard to push it away. Collecting the last of his belongings from his locker, he closed it and locked it for one final time, leaving the keys on top - the Referee would collect it later - and headed towards the changing rooms where he could find the men and say a proper goodbye.

At least, he would have headed there had he not been intercepted by Piston Hondo.

"What-" Little Mac croaked out as the older man appeared out of seemingly nowhere - he would have said more, but his throat was too dry, his nerves being shot to pieces with the shock of seeing him so unexpectedly. Piston Hondo only smiled lightly and bowed at him (Little Mac returned the gesture hesitantly after a couple of seconds), before beckoning the youth to follow him. "what's going on?"

"You'll see soon," was the only reply. Little Mac was vaguely aware that he was being led in the direction of the main lounge, but could not understand why until he set a foot into the room - and gasped.

_Pictures_, was the first word that came into the youth's mind. Two entire walls of the already-spacious lounge was framed with pictures of him - posters, framed photos of him holding up the belt from each Circuit or cheering in victory, and cut-outs from newspaper articles. Next to the walls stood wooden tables and platforms with various memorabilia stacked on it, along with trophies, albums and various items that he distinctly remembered autographing in the past couple of months. Even the bike that he and Doc Louis had used to train on was there; he had handed it over to the older man just before he announced his retirement, expecting it to be scrapped anytime soon, but it was being displayed instead with its polish restored to its former glory.

But all of that was nothing compared to the fact that in front of the displays stood every single boxer he had ever fought during his stay in the Association, along with Doc Louis himself. Not one of them were absent; they looked over when Piston Hondo urged Little Mac forwards, and the majority of them greeted him with a genuine, but vaguely sad, smile.

"We've been waiting for you, son," his trainer said, speaking for every boxer in the place. "how do you like it? This is your Hall of Fame. Everyone in the Association contributed to this, as you can see-" here he turned to the bike with a wistful expression, and gently tapped the bell on it, the clear sound echoing through the room. "-as a truly prodigious boxer of the WVBA, the Association decided to honour you and your championship."

"Champions by default only get a trophy and an album displayed in the lounge," the usually-silent Sandman spoke up as well. "you're the only one who've ever been given a permanent display like this. Count yourself lucky," he added in hastily as an afterthought, too proud to drop his haughty demeanor; Little Mac (although confused and rather dazed) was grateful for this, because it meant that nothing much had changed as a result of his retirement.

"Christ," Little Mac finally uttered, his voice coming out awkward and strained. "I... Jeez, guys, I really... really don't know what to say..."

The next few minutes, mercifully, passed in a genuinely sympathetic blur; understanding that Little Mac was overwhelmed, the men came to his rescue, bustling forwards, taking his hand, telling him how much they had appreciated him during the short time he had been in the Association and how much he would be missed. It could not have been more than five, maybe six minutes he had spent sitting there with the boxers - and although that was a woefully inadequate time to tell them how grateful he was for everything, he knew that it was still enough. Little Mac shook hands with many of them in that short time, even sharing a hug with Disco Kid and with Glass Joe; it was the first time in years that he had been surrounded with so much affection, as strange as that seemed, and he knew that he would not forget them as long as he lived.

For just that short time everything was perfect, but of course the youth couldn't stay for long; when his trainer stood up and walked towards the doors, tipping his hat to the others, Little Mac knew that he was to follow and leave the others behind. "Time to go now, Mac," Doc Louis encouraged, opening the doors; the youth followed him for a couple of steps, before he thought better of it and looked back.

"Thank you," Little Mac murmured, holding back tears, unable to say more out of fear that he might break down completely. But the boxers understood; those words were quite enough. Little Mac paused at the doorway one more time - the men were still standing there in front of his Hall of Fame, not one of them looking at all out of place. There was Glass Joe, smiling at him with the same modest smile as he'd had when the youth had first met him - Von Kaiser, leaning casually against the wall and gazing at him with a surprisingly softened expression - even Aran Ryan and the few others who had never really opened up to him were standing there as well, apparently expressionless but their true feelings given away by the way they gazed rather solemnly towards the floor. And in that instant he knew that it would be all right, that he was always welcome, that he would be remembered and the past year had not been for nothing.

And just like that, the dryness tightening his throat disappeared; but by then, Little Mac had realised that no more words were necessary, and gave the boxers one last smile, receiving nods, other smiles and gentle words of encouragement in return.

He turned back only then and took a deep breath, taking a step outside towards the sun.

The world was real, and it was waiting for him.

* * *

**Youth -** Doc Louis makes an overdue appearance. In a collection that discussed Carmen, the Referee and even the hologram boxers, whatever would have been done without writing one for the most constant presence in the entire game? I was interested in his own motives for training Little Mac, the boy rejected by dozens of other trainers - so the Doc Louis in this story is kind of a mix of the NES game and the Wii game, because only the former really gives a date about his previous championship. Doc Louis is a real father figure to Mac, I think, and I've tried to make that come across, with the latter kind of following in Doc's footsteps. This one took ages to _start_ but I finished it in one day. It also includes details of how I _think_ the WVBA works in general.

**Zoetic -** This is actually a biological term for '_of or pertaining to life'_. I was really interested in the 'life' part, it's hard to find anything good to use for 'z'. x.x Apart from that somewhat unfitting title, this is one of the darkest drabbles in the collection and unfortunately one of my least satisfying, I feel. It went on for forever and it felt like a failed horror story, somehow. I'd started this ages back, when I was working on the D-F series and working on and off on it - but I could not get the descriptions to condense. But despite all these shortcomings I feel that it is still in a form that illustrates Von Kaiser's trauma clearly. I've written his past as leading to a downfall in the military, originating from his hubris, and that he's spent most of his life trying to atone for it; this being why he is so utterly troubled. I still like 'Suppress' better, but the two drabbles are not mutually exclusive. This was indeed a real pain to write, perhaps the one I struggled most with, and perhaps it would have benefited had I expanded this proper into its own AU fic. x.x

**Xerostomia -** This is a term that means 'excessive dryness of mouth', which is exactly what happens to Little Mac here. I'm sorry that the terms here are too overly pretentious/complex, it's just that these letters in the alphabet are really difficult to find proper words for. T-T This is the finale to the entire collection, detailing my headcanon for Mac's retirement and subsequent departure from the WVBA - only that the other boxers are also seen, not just Doc. I thought it was a grand send-off, for a now-eighteen and adult Mac and whatever lies in the future ahead for him. It hits pretty close to home for me too, although I'm hardly a champion at boxing. xD

And so that's how the collection ends. I hope you have enjoyed Alphabet thoroughly through its nine-months, nine-chapter run; and it just happens, with the posting of this ending I have come to fully embrace adulthood. Happy eighteenth birthday, me. Feels like ages since I first sat my twelve-year old self down to write my first story.

Thank you for reading and being patient with me, everyone. I'll sign off now.

_-Solitary Shadow, June 18th 2011-_


End file.
